The Buquet Sister
by Ivory Wolf
Summary: He taught me to listen and I taught him to love. I just wish it had been me. There is a side to the famous story that nobody knows, a character on the sidelines, nobody mentioned. Whether truth or legend, her love endures, wishing his had done the same.
1. A Once Upon A Time of Sorts

**A/N: I've just started working on this story recently. It will serve as my back up for when I hit a writer's block with my other story in progress, "**_Princess of Egypt."_**I hope you'll like it. Let me know if it's worth keeping around…;)**

**A Once Upon a Time of Sorts**

_The story of the disfigured genius, who dwelled within the walls of an Opera House, is well-known. Over time however, the word "story" became plural as several variations were derived from it. _

_Questions arose as to who all were involved in the strange incident. Was the masked legend immortal or human?_

_What were the real intentions behind his interest in Christine Daae? _

_Why did they all suddenly…disappear in the end?_

_For many, the answers would never be revealed. Yes, in one way or another, everyone has heard the story of the_ _**Fantome De L'Opera.**_ _But no one knows the real story. My story. It is the true story of the Phantom of the Opera who was neither ghost nor angel, but a man; A man I loved more than life, itself. _

_He taught me to listen and I taught him to love. I just wish it could've been me. _

_It happened in the year of 1882. That's when many strange and—magical—things took place at the Opera Populaire. It was also around that time that I'd decided to seek out my brother._

_Being looked upon as a lone young woman with ideals and principles of her own, traveling around the world didn't put me in highest regard of some of the folk around me. I came from a long line of "outcasts/rogues/and miscreants," as polite society would label us and so, did not hesitate to dress like one…_

The streets of Paris…already, I didn't like it. Parisians were self-righteous and stuck-up was what I'd always been told, and I heartily agreed. Ever-prideful of their heritage and stone-set ways, I made up my mind I didn't care much for Paris and it, in turn, didn't care much for the likes of me.

Finally, after much wandering and the receiving of countless snobbish stares, I stood before the magnificent erection: The Opera Garnier. Where I would hopefully find who I'd been searching for.


	2. Hell's Angels

**Ch. 2 Hell's Angels**

_Another Day, another rehearsal, another misfortune._

Such was the life at the Opera Populaire. The Opera's diva, La Carlotta, just had a scenery backdrop fall on her…again. It had been the second time that month and she would stand for no more excuses.

The accident occurred just as she reached the peak in the aria she was practicing for that night's gala performance, which was to be held in honor of the previous manager, Monsieur Lefevre's retirement. The numerous rumors of his apparent retirement had been circling about the opera house for the past few weeks. Some declared it to be a wise decision as Lefevre was getting along in his years and had nothing left to offer but a head full of washed-out ideas.

Others disagreed, saying they wouldn't find another manager as good as him in a hundred years. Either way, the man was leaving, having his fill of stressful productions, sentimental melodramatic performers, and …ghosts.

Now, every theatre has its ghost stories. But there was one ghost quite famous among the employees of the House. According to rumor, he wrote demanding notes to Monsieur Lefevre, detailing how he wanted the Opera House to be run. For years, Lefevre obeyed. Then he announced one fine day that his years were catching up with him, taking a toll on his health and it was time to go.

Which brings Joseph Buquet back to the present, watching from the catwalks as Lefevre and the two new managers whom he'd been showing around, assist the screeching Madame Carlotta.

"Buquet! For God's sake man, what's going on up there?" Lefevre called up.

"Don't look at me! As God's my judge, I wasn't at my post. I'll bet me life it was the ghost." Joseph grinned, deviously.

A wave of annoyance washed over the former manager's face. A few of the other stagehands snickered. Jospeph was part of an elite organization involving the brethren of stagehands at the Opera Populaire. They called themselves "Hell's Angels," representing the fact that they were higher up in the heavens than anyone else in the theatre. Not to mention all the work they did down in the cellars, also known as the theatre's "hell."

Most of them were crude brutes who liked to pass the time drinking, cracking perverted jokes and gazing down the low-cut blouses of the chorus girls and the corps de ballet.

When anyone asked about the name of their posse, they attributed it to the fact that although a good deal of work was done in the cellars, most of it was done up onstage or in the catwalks. Thus, making it seem like that was as close to heaven as any of them were ever going get. The irony of the situation was too much to pass up.

Buquet watched as the Diva began her daily ranting and raving while storming off the stage in a huff.

"Wonderful," said one of his men, "let's hope she decides not to come back this time."

The stagehands started to slack off in their duties, seeing as the opera currently had no leading lady and therefore decided to wait until changes had been made, and orders were issued.

Joseph whipped out a flask of whiskey while leaving his post once more, barely listening to the squabbling onstage below him about who they would find to sing the role. Suddenly a small but sweet voice trickled out from the crowd on the stage, drifting up to the catwalks. Stashing the whiskey back into his vest, Joseph sauntered back to the edge of the walk and peered over to see Christine Daae standing center stage with everyone staring astonished .

_Little Christine Daae…the chorus girl? She didn't use to sing like that._ It puzzled Joseph as well as entranced him.

"Get to work, boys! Looks like we'll be havin' a performance after all."

**A/N: So, some of you might already be able to tell, I'm borrowing from Robert Englund film, a little bit of musical, a little bit of book, and a little bit of me…the only character I own in this story (so far) is Joseph Buquet's sister…soon to have a name. Please review. Constructive criticism is welcome, flames are not. **


	3. A Tight Spot

I had to admit, in all my life there were very few places I could compare with the greatness of that building. Very few. It seemed everything about it glittered and shone like something out of a fairytale. There was so much detail to everything, it would take days just to admire it all. Unfortunately, I didn't have that kind of time to waste.

I had someone to find and I could sense with every fiber of my being that he would be found here!

Rehearsals were done for the day and people began filing out of the auditorium. Some of the stagehands hung back, wrapping up their final tasks for the day.

"Well at least we've got that Carlotta woman out of our hair for a few days, though I'm startin' to feel a little sorry for that sour ol' wench." One man jested.

"You would! Ye always did have a soft spot for the ol' pruny ones, Jacques." This from a man who went by the name "Salty."

"Unlike our Joseph, here. He'll take the lot, no matter what age they are!" Chimed in a third.

Joseph smiled. "What can I say, ol' Blackcap? I'm just a born ladies man."

"Look at that proud grin, mates. His twisted fantasies are what gets us all into trouble. Got his hand down his trousers when he should be minding the ropes." Salty and the others laughed.

Joseph whipped out his whiskey bottle and chugged a bit before replying, "Go to hell." The "Hell's Angels" started descending the ladder from the catwalks to leave for the night.

"You comin', Jo?" Jacques called up.

"Be down in a jiffy."

Occasionally, Joseph liked to hang back and have a little drinking time alone. Tonight however, he wasn't as alone as he thought…

Tucking away the whiskey, Joseph started whistling as he went about getting the backdrops off the stage.

"Joseph." The name was whispered, but loud enough for Joseph to catch. Glancing around and seeing no one, he shrugged and continued about his business.

"Joseph!" The voice spoke more forcefully, causing Joseph to pause and frantically look about.

"Jacques, that you?" No answer.

Cursing his over-active imagination, he reached inside his vest for the whiskey bottle, his focus now on the rotating wheel that set one of the backdrops back onto the stage. He'd noticed a small wear in the bottom corner of the painted canvas, earlier. Probably due to it hitting the stage so aggressively when they practiced scene shifting during rehearsals. He noticed the small things, like that. Hell, he noticed everything. Unbeknown to him however, was the fact that his sharp-eyed attentiveness would cost him dearly in the end.

With his attention focused partly on the stage, and partly on his supply of alcohol, he was startled when a pair of footsteps seemed to drop down behind him from the ceiling.

"Drinking on the job…Joseph?"

Joseph jumped back as he turned, staring eye to eye with a dark figure standing beside him. The figure wore a white mask that covered most of his face, leaving only enough room to view the mouth that spoke with that disturbingly haunting voice. He had never seen him before, but by the way he'd approached without a sound, Joseph figured he must've been a new stagehand that was used to heights.

"Let's have that drink."

Warily, he handed over the whiskey.

"So," the man started, conversationally, "Your little mishap this evening was the work of a ghost, you say?" He took a swig of the diminishing alcohol.

"N-no. It was just an accident, was all."

Joseph thought it best to skip over the ghost stories and give a straight-forward logical answer. This guy didn't look like someone you'd mess around with.

"Ah. But you blamed me."

The now-empty bottle of whiskey was flung to the ground, glass shattering in all directions. It was then that Joseph noticed just how empty the theatre was. There was no one to hear the glass shatter. No one to hear him call for help if he needed it.

"I swear, it won't happen again." He smiled nervously. The dark figure smiled back.

"No, it won't. You're suspended.

Before he could even blink, the dark man hit a lever, sending a wheel into a reeling spin. The rope on the pulley shot up, the loop on the end of it catching Joseph's leg. He hollered and screamed as he plummeted over the catwalk, his weight setting the pulley into reverse, which brought the backdrop onstage zipping back up into the flies. He dangled upside down, several feet above the stage floor, cursing.

"Whoa! Whoa! Sweet Jesus, somebody help me!"

The cloaked figure above emitted a dark chuckle.

"No one is coming to save you, Joseph Buquet." He whipped out a long steel blade.

"Not even "Sweet Jesus"."

The man hit the lever again, and Joseph, who now caught the gleam of the knife, began his ascent back up to the catwalks. Suddenly, he felt a sharp tug on the rope before he realized the stage floor was rapidly approaching his face. Luckily, his hands and arms managed to help break his fall before he broke his nose.

"What the devil...?"

The lengthy piece of rope still looped around his ankle, had been snapped in half. Joseph looked up into the catwalk for the menacing black figure, but he was gone.

"I must say, I'm getting a little too old to be chasing you across the globe, makin' sure you stay out of trouble."

Joseph froze, unbelievingly, as soon as he heard the all-too-familiar voice, then turned around.

"Maggie? Maggie Buquet?"


	4. A Family Reunion

**A/N: Thank you, lovely reviewers. I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far. Be sure to always give your honest opinion; no pity reviews. As much as I love and adore your fantastic comments, I can't become a better writer off pity. **

**Enjoy Chapter 4!**

**Ivory Wolf**

I gave a small acknowledging smile as I walked up onto the stage.

"How many times am I going to have to save your hide?"

I placed my hands on my hips, watching Joseph unravel the remaining rope from around his leg.

"So nice to see you too." He replied, sarcastically. "It's good to know you still look after me, even though I did my best not to give any hint of my whereabouts these past few years."

"You did your best to not communicate with us _at all_ these past few years. After some point in life, isn't it the older brother's turn to look after his younger sister?"

I jested, as I took hold of his hand to pull him off the floor.

"Right, as if you needed looking after." Joseph smiled. "So, how's my dear, sweet baby sister?"

He came forward as if to hug me but I evaded his embrace, and crossed the stage to retrieve the weapon that had cut through the rope.

"Oh, just dandy…chasing you half-way across the world."

I yanked the knife out of the backdrop it had embedded itself in.

"Awe, now I've got to repair that." He complained. "You still carry that thing around?"

"Comes in handy, don't you think?"

I slipped the blade into a brown leather sheath wrapped around the lower section of my calf. I could feel my brother's disapproving gaze as he eyed my unusual apparel.

"When are you gonna' start dressing like everyone else?" He headed backstage, and I followed.

"I do dress like everyone else."

"Like everyone else _your_ gender."

"The day you give up the drink, ol' Jo."

He walked briskly back to the stage with a broom in tow and started sweeping up the broken glass.

"You don't seem all that thrilled to see me, dear brother."

"What do ye want me to say, Mags? After four years of nothing; no communication, no nothin'—!"

"It's not like you've tried!"

"It's not like I wanted to!" He sighed in frustration, running a hand over his face.

"You're not supposed to be here."

That remark stung a little, even though it shouldn't have. After all, it wasn't like this was the first time this had happened. But I kept my face carefully composed.

"Alright," I took his hand and shook it, as if saying good-bye to a mere acquaintance.

"Joseph Buquet, it was nice saving your arse again. Hopefully, we'll meet up in the near future when you've stopped being such an arse yourself."

With that said and done, I flashed my fake grin, turned heel, and left.

"Wait," I heard him heave another sigh, "Hold up there, you."

Turning around, I watched him without expression as he ambled off the stage to catch up with me.

"I suppose you've got nowhere in particular to be gettin' off to?"

"No problem. I'll get by. I always do." I tried walking out on him again.

"You can stay with me."

"No, you don't have—."

"Perhaps you're right, Maggie. It _is_ my turn, and what kind of brother would I be to not look out for his little sister?"

I allowed a hint of a smile as he ruffled my hair and put his arm around my shoulders.

"Besides, who better to keep you out of mischief than myself?"

I sniffed. "I don't know what you're talking about. _I _certainly don't start any fights, unlike somebody else I know." I teased, throwing his arm off.

"Maybe not," he laughed, "But you sure as hell, end them!"


	5. Accomodations Not So Accomodating

**A/N: Had a devil of a time pondering over whether or not to add more than one point of view in this story. For the most part, Maggie is the one narrorating the whole story, even when it's focused on Joseph or Erik. Let me know if you think I should start adding Erik's point of view or just leave Maggie to tell it. Hope you like!**

Down, _deep_ down, in the inky black depths of the opera house, a lone being shook to the core with rage as he entered his concealed home.

"Damn!" he cursed, throwing his cloak and hat on the ground, near the door. He had been so close, so _damn_ close to being rid of that idiot stage manager forever, until that girl intervened.

His sister…

He was thoroughly enjoying watching his prey dangle helplessly at the bottom of the rope. Growing annoyed by his endless pathetic cries for help, he whipped out his trusty knife to finish the job. Joseph's eyes caught sight of it, and he struggled ferociously like a fish on a hook, to be free of the rope around his leg.

Suddenly, the whistling of another blade slicing the air as well as the rope caught both men off-guard. His head shot up to peer into the empty audience, and locate the perpetrator. It was dark, but his excellent night vision picked out a figure of medium height standing in the aisle near the middle rows of seats.

Realizing he'd lost his chance to dispose of Buquet, he disappeared before either person thought to seek him out. He didn't leave altogether, however. From his new hiding place, he observed the scene that unfolded below. He had to admit that he was taken aback when he saw the knife-thrower emerge from the shadows to reveal a girl; a girl in men's apparel, no less.

She was an inevitable curiosity. Who was she? He'd never seen her before, so she couldn't very well be employed in the Opera Garnier. His question was soon answered when he caught fragments of conversation between her and Joseph Buquet. The young woman mentioned something about "a _brother_ looking after his _sister_." Buquet, in turn, confirmed any rising suspicions by replying, "How's my dear, sweet little _sister_?"

So…Buquet had a sister. How very interesting.

"I can't believe you don't have your own flat." I grumbled to my brother's back, as I followed him down the first cellar stairs. "Or at least a room in the dormitories."

"What're you talkin' about? My room is just good as any in those drafty old dorms. It's a real palace, it is! Besides, it tends to get a bit pricey for a flat in the city." He boasted.

After making our way down a second set of stairs, I couldn't refrain from asking…

"Are we residing in the earth's core?" To which Joseph laughed before replying that it might as well be.

"Don't worry. We won't be going beyond the second cellar."

"Exactly how many cellars are there?"

"Five, although not many venture any lower than the third or fourth. The fifth cellar we steer clear from altogether.

"Why is that?"

Joseph hesitated before a door on the right side of the stone wall, and then he turned to lean in closer to my face. After briefly glancing about, he returned his focus to me.

"Because of _him._"

I furrowed my eyebrows. "Him, who?"

My elder brother grinned deviously, fiddling with a jingly ring of keys before turning back to the door.

"The Ghost, of course."

"A ghost? Are you serious?"

I placed my hands on my hips, and cocked my eyebrow, disbelievingly. He ignored me as he pushed the door open, and ushered me inside.

"Welcome to Chateau de Buquet."

Dear God. _This_ is where we were living?


	6. Any Port in a Storm

For Joseph, the shock upon encountering his younger sister was gradually replaced with growing anticipation at having her there. It had been three years since their last encounter, which had been in England. Before that, was Russia. Before that…well, it had been a long chase over time.

Maggie had left home when she was barely 15, "in search of you" is what she always claimed, but somehow he wondered if that was only half the truth. Maggie was like Joseph in many ways, much to their mother's dismay; same dark curly hair, sea-green eyes, same untamable nature. Although, he had to admit, he'd never inherited the fierce temper she had, which came from their mother's side.

It got her into trouble on numerous occasions, but then it remarkable got her out of trouble again…sometimes. In all his years of wandering, Joseph had never known anybody quite so brave as his sister, even if she never believed that she was.

And even if this wasn't the best of times to have her "drop by," all in all, he was secretly glad she was here. He hadn't realized just how much he had missed her. Now, there was just the question of what to do with her.

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**Maggie**

Our living quarters (though it could hardly be called such) was a ghastly sight. The concrete walls were cracked and freezing cold. There were various patches of wall occupied with pictures, letters, and numbers sketched out in white chalk. A mattress buried under a nest of blankets sat against one wall. The only other objects in that rabbit hole of a room were a chair on which a change of clothes draped over, and a rickety wooden nightstand covered in a layer of swirled dust…evidence that someone had made a lazy attempt at brushing it off.

"I know it's a bit dusty—,"

"It's a bit disgusting, is what it is. How can you live like this?" I kicked a dirty sock off to the side.

"I've spent more time in the streets and found more decent places to stay!"

"Excuse me, _Your Highness,_ what did you expect? I'm a man, and a hardworking one at that, therefore, I live like one."

"Not anymore."

I paused for a moment before realizing something rather of importance.

"Where do I sleep?"

Joseph bit his lip. "Hmm…right, that's a tad bit problematic."

It another minute before he offered up what turned out to be a rather daft idea.

"You know, there just might be a spare bed in the girls' dormitories. If we're lucky, perhaps I could get it out of there, and no one would be the wiser."

"You mean, steal it."

"No, not necessarily. I mean, if no one's using it…"

"Joseph, that's the most idiotic idea I've ever heard!"

"Fine! You wanna sleep on the floor, be my guest."

"There's no way I'm sleeping on that floor."

"Quit your bellyaching, it's clean enough."

"It's a port in a sewage storm."

This went on for awhile, until I realized we had left the dingy room, and we were on our way upstairs again.

"Where are we going?"

"It's late. And since you're so against _stealing_ a bed, I thought I'd _borrow_ some extra blankets for the night."

We were in one of the dimly-lit corridors at that point, and I kept close to Joseph, for fear of losing him around a dark corner.

"Where the h—,"

I was cut off by Joseph's hand unexpectedly clamping over my mouth, while at the same time, he yanked me back and pressed me against the wall.

"Shh!" He whispered urgently.

For a brief moment, I wondered what the hell was wrong with him. Then I heard, "Hey Jo! What you still doin' here?" The voice belonged to a male; an English one at that.

"Blackcap! I thought you were long gone!" Joseph hollered down the hall. He quickly turned back to me.

"Get out of sight! Go on!"

He swiftly peeled me away from the wall, and tapped my derierre, sending me off in the opposite direction. I hated it when he did that.

**Author's Note: Sooo sorry about not updating like a good little girl. Just a brief note, I've made a change, but I don't think it'll throw anyone off. I hope. In the chapter, "A Tight Spot," where it introduces a few of Joseph's friends, there was the character Magpie. Well, I'm going to change it to Blackcap/Pipit (Pipit will be his real name), because I wanted to use Magpie as Joseph's nickname for Maggie. I didn't even think of this at the time I started writing the story, it just sort of came to me as I was trying to think of a pet name for Maggie in the upcoming chapter. **

**So now that I've screwed you all up, let me know what you think, and I'll bring up the next chapter very soon!**


	7. Dance Like No one is Watching

Since I had nothing else to do while waiting for Joseph, and didn't necessarily feel like sitting by myself in that pigsty of his, I explored the Opera. I'd already seen the stage, and honestly didn't feel like going back there this time of night. My thoughts wandered back to earlier this evening when I first stepped into the Opera Populaire, and felt the over-whelming rush of awe and appreciation at the glorious beauty and architecture surrounding me. Those thoughts compelled me to revisit the main foyer.

It was dark. The only light came from the moon and two gas lamps on either side of the threshold to the L'escalier Grand. I could hear the soft "click, "click" of my boots as I slowly made my way down the marble stairs. The balustrade glided smoothly under my hand. The moon was unwaveringly bright tonight, which I was thankful for, it being so dark and eerily silent in the echoing foyer. The moon always seemed brighter during the cold months; almost as if it were carved from ice, itself. I thanked my lucky stars that I had made it here in the last week of November, before any treacherous snow storms hit. It was hell traveling through snow.

I caught myself skidding around the designs on the floor. It looked impossibly smooth. A devious smile spread across my face. '_Only one way to find out_.'

Listening carefully for any late-night wanderers like myself, I hastily untied my boot laces, and kicked them off. With a running start, I slid across the polished floor, throwing out my arms to keep my balance. A surprised squeak escaped my lips as I did so. I did this over and over, delighting in the rather childish game. As long as no one was watching, why did it matter? It was unknown to me at the time, that someone was.

I soon realized that it would probably be best to locate my brother. _Alright, one more._ I told myself. I focused on a dark corner near the Grand Staircase, started running at top speed, until my feet began to slip at the effort, and then let myself slide. The excited giggle I let out turned into an awkward squawk as I noticed a dark, _solid_ shape directly in my "line of fire," so to speak.

I flailed my arms in order to stop short of flying into this object, which resulted in me falling backward and landing unceremoniously on my rear. The shadowy object began to laugh; laughed loud and long. I knew no other laugh like it. The figure stepped forward into the moonlight to reveal a grinning Joseph.

"Sweet Jesus, Joseph! You scared the—,"

"—I daresay I didn't mean to. But it was amusing, just the same."

He offered a hand to help me up, which I grasped tightly with my own. I realized how silly I must have looked with my disheveled hair, and stocking feet. I rushed over to grab my boots and hastily sat down to put them back on. Still grinning, Joseph plopped down beside me.

"In all seriousness though," his face matched his words, losing its previous impish look.

"You probably shouldn't go wandering about this place at night. Could stumble upon somethin' you weren't meant to find."

"Well, you telling me to "get out of sight" didn't exactly provide a map of secret hiding places."

"So you went for a moonlight skate on the marble floors."

I gave him a reproachful glare, and he threw up his hands in defense.

"Aye, ye got me there, sorry. I didn't expect anyone to still be up and about. That was me pal, Blackcap."

"Blackcap?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, it's a nickname. He's an Englishman—,"

"--Figured."

"Anyway, he's got a real name, but I don't want to get into all that tonight."

"I guess I'll have to ask him when I meet him." I said, making small conversation as I followed him up the stairs.

"Yeah, about that…" He trailed off, running a hand through his hair.

"What?"

"Never mind. I'm tired. Let's go fix you up a bed of some sort."

Confused by his sudden mood swing, I followed him through the halls in silence before remembering a previous comment.

"What did you mean about stumbling onto something I'm not meant to find?"

Joseph hesitated a moment before sighing and picking up the pace.

"Not tonight, love. I'll tell you another time."

…_Yes, you do that Joseph…soon. _The figure enveloped in shadows slipped away.

In the end, we couldn't find a spare bed for my lunatic brother to stealthily haul down to the cellars, so we "borrowed" an armful of blankets for a makeshift bed.

"I'll spread these out on the floor." He said, once we returned to his cozy little hole in the wall.

"So kind of you to take the floor for me, Joseph. At least until we make other arrangements."

"What…? Ohhh, no. That bed's mine. _You'll _be the one that's sleepin' on the floor, missy."

"I don't think so! Whatever happened to ladies first?" I countered.

"I'm saying "ladies first…" on the floor."

Needless to say, there was quite a bit more bantering before he finally gave in and ended up on the floor in a twisted heap of blankets. I lay down on the mattress opposite of his wall, thinking.

"So, what about tomorrow, Joseph?" I asked, staring at the dark ceiling.

"What about it."

"Well, now that I'm here…"

I heard a rustle amidst the blankets, and looked over to see him lean on one elbow.

"Yeah, about that. I was going to wait until tomorrow before…" he trailed off.

"What?"

He sighed. "It's nothing against you, love, but the thing is, I don't want anyone knowing you're here."

My eyes widened. "So what am I supposed to do, be a shut-in or—?"

"—No, what I mean is, I don't want anyone knowing who you are."

This strange turn of behavior was growing more aggravating by the second. Why should it matter if anyone knew who I was? I was just about to ask this when he answered,

"It raises lots of questions. Questions that I don't feel much like answering."

"Then don't tell anyone about our past. For heaven's sake, it shouldn't make any difference if they know I'm your sister."

"Believe me, Maggie, it does make a difference. Look, I don't really want to get into all this right now. It's late, we're both tired, and we'll come up with a resolution in the morning, alright? In fact, I'm already working on one, now."

He lay back down and rolled over on his side. After a moment of contemplating whether or not to keep up this weary conversation, I blew out the candle. But before going to sleep I had to ask.

"What kind of resolution, Joseph." Knowing my brother, I knew I should fear his reply.

"Nothing set in stone, Magpie."

"Joseph."

"We're gonna make you a boy."

**A/N: Holy crap, I'm tired. But I really wanted to get this chapter out tonight, especially because I was rapidly approaching writer's block. Needless to say, I know this won't be the greatest, so bear with me. To answer some questions, I don't really intend to make Joseph an evil character towards his sister, and I'll bring Erik into the picture again, soon. **

**Ta-ta for now**

**Ivory Wolf**


	8. Of Disguise and Deception

**Maggie**

"Why did you have to be so bloody skinny," muttered Joseph, as he tightened the suspenders on the pants he lent me.

"Why can't I just wear me own clothes, Jesus, at least me own pants? You said it yourself; I basically dress like a boy anyway."

The way he yanked contemptuously at the suspenders informed me that one side must be jammed. This did nothing to improve my thinning patience.

"Because, _my clothes_, thankfully, don't necessarily flatter the feminine figure. Damn these unholy suspenders!"

I let out an unmistakable sigh of frustration.

"There, done. Let's have a look at ya."

He stood back to observe his handiwork. I glanced down to see his bulky white undershirt hanging off one shoulder, a suspender strap soon to join it. The pants were all wrong. I looked like a half-stuffed potato sack. Raising my unenthused gaze to meet my brothers, I regarded him with a most sour expression.

"You must be joking."

"Well, what do you propose we do, _Your Majesty_?" He'd taken to calling me that few times already. Saying something offhand about dames never being content with anything they're given.

"I don't know! You're the guy, you figure it out!"

Making a sound somewhat akin to a horse, he rubbed his hand over his face. After a tense moment he suddenly snapped his fingers.

"Jacques."

"Jacques. Good. What's a Jacques?"

"He's one of me mates, and just about your size. Come on."

He grabbed my arm to pull me along, but I yanked it back.

"Whoa, hold on. Just what exactly are you going to tell him? "Ello mate, how's life? Oh, by the way, I was wonderin' if I could borrow an extra set of yer clothes for my femininity-impaired, cross-dressing sister," which would lead to "Oh yeah, didn't you know I had a sister?" I finished, strained and out of breath.

"Would you calm down? Good gravy, girl. I will handle it. Trust me."

"HA!"

"Don't start."

I didn't say anything more on the matter, and decided to put what little faith I had into my older brother. Although he wasn't exactly ingenious, Joseph was cunning. All Buquets were. He went off on his little mission. In the meantime, I was stuck in the potato-sack attire.

It took awhile to locate Jacques, since he was not much of an early riser. Joseph finally found him downing a cup of coffee near the Café de L' Opera.

"Jacques!" He waved to get his attention.

"Hey, Joseph! How goes the day?" Joseph took a seat next to him.

The café was bustling with company member and employees, all eager to finish their morning meals, and get the day started.

"I've got a favor to ask of you, Jacques. I need to borrow a set of your clothes."

Jacques set down his coffee and in all seriousness, said "Not to be rude, but I don't think my clothes will fit you."

"No, they're not for me…"

**Maggie**

"About bloody time!"

I jumped up from the bed as Joseph came through the door, and quickly snatched the articles of clothing from him.

"Did he ask any questions?" I threw off the suspenders and Joseph turned around to face the opposite wall.

"What do you think?" he responded.

"Well what did you tell him?"

"Don't worry about it. It's all taken care of."

I shimmied into the new pair of pants, which were a remarkably close fit. I was grateful that this Jacques included his own suspenders.

"Taken care of," I muttered, "Can't even take care of yourself."

"Finish dressin'," Joseph ordered.

On our way up through the cellars, Joseph drilled all this nonsensical blather into my head about what I was to say or not say; how I was to walk, act, sit, stand…

"How the hell is this relevant?" I whined. "It's not like they've never seen girls in men's clothes before."

He didn't answer me, and that's when I felt that sprouting seed of suspicion begin to bud.

**Erik**

There was much to be done before the performance of Faust, and though he loathed being up there amongst a throng of witless, superstitious imbeciles, he felt it necessary to oversee the production; make any corrections he saw fit. The new managers were obviously strangers to this area of business, because that's all it was to them: business. He doubted whether they held any real pride or interest in the arts.

Therefore, he felt that they would greatly benefit from his "guidance." He had not seen the girl who claimed to be Buquet's sister after leaving them the previous night, and so, had easily put her out of mind. He had other matters to think about.

Making his way high up into the stage flies, he noticed that most of the stagehands were already at work, starting new tasks or finishing old ones. He didn't pay them much attention as he moved further into the shadows, and waited for rehearsal to begin, which wouldn't be for another half hour.

_That's when he saw them walk in…_

…Joseph Buquet and a scrawny boy in suspenders, wearing a cap that was tipped low, covering his face. I watched Joseph turn and whisper to the smaller boy as they climbed up the ladder to the catwalks. Seeing as hardly any of the opera cast had arrived yet, I felt a keen interest in finding out the morning report from the stagehands.

**Joseph**

He could tell she was nervous. Perhaps it was his own fault for making such a big deal over this deception. No—it wasn't so much deception as it was discretion. Before they entered the company of his fellow stagehands, he turned to say,

"Just make sure you don't say anything too…womanly."

"Headline news, Joseph. I _am_ a woman!"

"Then don't say anything!" he whispered harshly, ending the conversation.

"Joseph! We were beginning to give up on you. Give us a hand, will ya?"

"That one's Salty." He pointed to the one that had just called out to him.

"Salty, how?"

Joseph rolled his eyes. "No, I mean that's his name; Salty. Over there is Gerard. He's also the Opera's rat-catcher…"

He led his reluctant sister into the realm of stagehands, pointing out and naming a few.

"And that one's Blackcap. He's that English chap I ran into last night. 'Came to us with that nickname, believe it or not. He said it was a pet name since he so closely resembled the bird. He makes not-half-bad bird calls, as well."

"Look here, Buquet's got us a newbie!"

A boy, several years younger than Maggie, slid down one of the secured ropes to land on the same catwalk as them. They were immediately swarmed by a gathering of Joseph's closest mates.

Joseph laughed, gently placing his hands on the boy's shoulders. "This is our aspiring acrobat, Remy. He's Jacques's younger brother."

A tan, slender, dark-haired young man stepped out of the small crowd.

"Speak of the devil…This here, is Jacques."

"I see you put my clothes to quick use." He addressed Joseph, before smiling down at Maggie. Jacuqes was only a few inches taller.

"So, now that you know who we all are, who might you be?"

Before she could open her mouth, Joseph spoke for her.

"This is Mag—"

"—Magpie." Maggie quickly covered, stepping in front of her brother.

"Actually, my real name's Sidney. "Magpie's" just a nickname."

"Right! Since birth" Joseph chimed in. "Magpie, here, 's me younger brother, just come from Ireland."

'_Just go with it, Maggie.'_ He pleaded silently, as she whipped her head around to face him with saucer-wide eyes. He was afraid this unspecified surprise would trip her up in her guise. However, she quickly regained composure, and at a brief glance at the men's faces, they looked ready to accept anything Maggie said. She spoke again, mistakenly, in a softer voice.

"It was extremely kind of you to let me—,"

"AHHEEERGHM!" She was interrupted by a massive cough, as well as a nudge in the back by Joseph. She immediately dropped her voice a couple octaves.

"Uh, I mean, it was sure swell of ya to lend a brother a hand." She finished gruffly, slapping Jacuqes playfully on the arm.

Jacques raised both eyebrows at her abnormal behavior before smiling awkwardly, and turning to walk away.

"Sure—no sweat."

Maggie smiled after him before leaning back to roll her eyes towards Joseph, dreading what was to come next in this awkward scene of deception. Luckily, Joseph took over the reigns.

"Remy, I want _Sidney_ to go with you. Show he—_him_ the ropes around here."

Joseph barely flinched at his almost-costly mistake, but let out a giant huff of breath as soon as they were out of sight, feeling that he was nearly losing control. This would be no walk in the park.


	9. SOS Please

Author's Note: Soooo Sorry I haven't been updating like a good little girl

**Author's Note: Soooo Sorry I haven't been updating like a good little girl. I've been utterly bogged down with school work, and my computer's been virused to death, and is still in the process of being fixed, so I've been without it for about 2 weeks. I hope you like what I've been able to drabble in my spare time. Review quickly, and I may update quickly.**

_**Erik **_

There was something unusual about that new stagehand, and yet, something vaguely familiar, causing my mind to stretch back to place that figure in an old memory. I came up with nothing. He wore a cap with the bill dipped low, making it difficult to study the face for any hopes of recognition. After introductions had been made, the crowd dispersed, and I watched the new boy, Sidney…or Magpie…whatever his name was of little consequence to me, as he followed the youngest stagehand, Remy, down to the other end of the catwalk.

Seeing as there would be no more worthwhile information to be gained on the young Irish boy, I turned my attentions elsewhere. The swishing of skirts announced the arrival of the first flock of ballet rats as they appeared in the wings below. They were soon joined by their ballet mistress Madame Gilbert, who immediately began leading them through their exercises.

'Little Meg Giry, the box-keeper's daughter, is late today,' I thought, distractedly. Which reminds me, I must get in touch with her mother soon, concerning a situation with Box 5.

_**Maggie**_

The snake…I glared after Joseph as I gritted my teeth in silence, following a safe pace behind Remy. I couldn't believe Joseph had pawned me off as his little brother, that conniving little oaf. His crafty deception botched up my original idea.

When he had nearly slipped my true identity, my resourceful imagination acted fast. I gave the pet name that our family had bestowed on me in past days, to give an air of personal friendliness, and blithe disposition, as well as a formal name, so as not to arouse suspicions that Joseph and I were in any way related.

So, I mentally constructed a quick story about coming from the same town as Joseph, hoping we would be seen as mere casual acquaintances instead of an Irishman who happens to look an uncanny bit like one of their coworkers, showing up (coincidentally) at the Opera Populaire for work.

But then…Oh, but then…he had to go and open that dim-witted, intoxicatingly polluted, grizzly trap of his, letting every stagehand and their mothers know that I was the lucky little brother of Joseph Buquet! That idiot. Didn't he know what he was risking? Didn't he realize how alike we really were? How I would now be walking on eggshells 24 hours a day, trying my best not to act and sound like him? We had to be more careful about how we spoke and behaved around each other from then on. His nearly-disastrous slip-ups were proof that he couldn't handle this; that he would instinctively act as a brother toward his sister, when it should be brother to brother.

As Remy began explaining which lines were connected what, I glanced over at Joseph, who was now mingling with one or two dancers in the wings. I could hear him laugh as the dancers stifled their giggles with delicate little hands.

'_That's right, Jo,'_ I thought, irritably, following Remy up a ladder. _'You just go have a ball! Surround yourself with swirling tutus and scandalous girls…while I'm surrounded by testosterone and body odor.'_

_**Joseph**_

I knew Maggie was not happy with me, though I couldn't exactly figure out why. She obediently followed Remy, and listened to what he and the other lads told her. She tried so hard to blend in.

Meanwhile, I discovered through the Corps de Ballet grapevine the confirmation that Christine Daae would be singing at the gala this very evening. The only word on La Carlotta was that she had suddenly and mysteriously taken ill. The abrupt change of plans would no doubt mean extra work and an abrupt change of pace for performers and stagehands alike.

Everyone would be racing to and fro. Costume adjustments would be made, last minute rehearsals…I doubt there would even be enough time to edit the programs. It meant it would be tougher on Mags, seeing as she didn't know much about the theatre or what labor skills were required. Judging by the sudden series of peculiar events that had taken place, a part of me suspected that ghost must be involved somehow.

_**Maggie**_

__I learned a lot within a short amount of time. Worn out and breaking a sweat, everyone broke for lunch. I passed Jacques who laughed upon seeing me in a flushed and breathless state.

"Just you wait, boy. There's much more to what we do than what you've been shown today."

I groaned, leaning against a railing of an upper catwalk. "Fantastic."

"Don't worry, it's not always this chaotic. It just is during the hell week, which is the final week before the first performance…or emergency rehearsals like this one." Jacques explained to me on our way down the ladder.

"The Opera's original Diva, Carlotta Guidicelli is rumored to be ill. Her understudy, Christine Daae, is taking her place."

"That's too bad. Is she very good, then?"

"Which one?"

I shrugged. "Either, I suppose."

"That Daae girl's got a decent voice if fairly quiet and noticeably untrained. Now, Carlotta…"

He trailed off with an expression of concentration, as he stopped to tighten the knot in a nearby line that was done carelessly by a previous stagehand.

"Just keep your ears open when she comes back. You'll find out soon enough."

As I sat with several other men at the Café De L' Opera, I noticed a flock of girls about my age, all chorus members or dancers, filter in to find a table. Jacques leaned over so I could hear him above the increasing chatter.

"You see that girl, there?"

My eyes followed his pointed finger to a girl with long, golden, softly-curled hair, and fair skin standing next to a shorter girl with raven hair, and pallor complexion. The taller of the two appeared to be more timid when approaching the larger group. Both were still in their costumes.

"That's Christine Daae, the one performing tonight."

He smiled slightly at the surprise that briefly passed over my face. She sure didn't look like much to me, but then, who knew better than I how deceptive first appearances could be. The dark-haired girl glanced our way and I noticed Jacques gesturing for her to come over. Panic seized me immediately.

"What are you doing?" I hissed quietly, so no one else would overhear. Jacques looked at me as if I were missing teeth.

"What? I was inviting them over to introduce you. Is that alright?"

I kept fidgeting and biting my lip as my eyes darted back to see the two girls making their way towards our table. I couldn't think of anything to say. I wasn't at all ready to be ensnared in the company of my own sex, flaunting my disguise. I was sure they'd see right through it.

"Good afternoon, ladies." Jacuques's voice cut through my dread-ridden thoughts. "I'd like you to meet our newest addition, Sidney Buquet."

I sat, frozen, not sure if I should speak, shake hands or get up and bow. I remembered hearing it was good etiquette (at least for the upper class) to stand when a lady entered—or was it when they left—or both? Realizing I looked like an idiot just sitting there, I quickly stood, sliding my chair back, and bowed like I'd seen few men of social status do. Laughter erupted from around the table, joined by the stifled giggles from the two girls.

"No need to be so formal, mate," Salty passed behind and slapped me on the back as he and his mug made their way to the bartender. "They're just chorus-girls."

The dark-haired one stuck out her tongue at him before smiling back at me. "He's right. We're all too good of friends here to be treated with the respect we deserve. I'm Meg Giry—,"

"—Little Giry—"

"—Irrelevant information, Jacques. And this is my friend, Christine Daae."

We shook hands and I resumed my seat. They were invited to join us, which they did, much to my discomfort. '_Damn, I'm in a tight spot.' _I thought. Suddenly, a pair of hands rested on my shoulders, and I tilted my head up to see the stubble chin of my brother.

"Don't mean to steal the belle of the ball, but I have a task that requires the assistance of my brother, here."

We made hasty farewells as I escaped (with little grace) from the table of impending doom, Joseph's hand on my shoulder, guiding me away.

"Good timing." I breathed a sigh of relief the moment we were out of earshot. Joseph shook his head before glancing at me.

"God, you sure know how to get in a fix," was his only reply.


	10. Skirting Around Suspicions

Maggie

**Maggie**

"You think you can handle it?" Joseph had just finished drilling me through all the procedures I had learned earlier that morning.

"I think I'll survive."

"Believe me, Mags; it's crucial you know this backwards and front ward. One slip-up could be enough to ruin the entire show for a well-paying audience. They expect the best from us, and you've never known much in the way of theatre."

"About as much as you ever did." I muttered; then laughed over our anxiety. "Hey, I know how to work a crowd, if you can remember."

"But you don't know how to work _around _one. And that's what we do here." We were silent a moment as we walked offstage before he continued.

"When you're backstage or above the stage, you have to learn to be quick, practically invisible; as if everything was being run by magic fingers." At this he waved his fingers for emphasis.

"The people are paying to see the best dancers, hear the most praised voices in all of Europe. They could care less about how the scenes are made, how much work and detail goes into every single production. The audience doesn't pay to see us, let alone our screw-ups. To them, Maggie, we just don't exist."

After that completely tiresome, brotherly lecture, Joseph suggested I go explore the Opera while I still had the time; "get to know it better." When I asked if he would give me the honor of being my tour guide, he replied that he had some other matter to attend to, and reminded me that I had no patience for tour guides, anyway.

"Just hold off on your skatin' around the floors in your stocking-feet, love." he winked, putting an extra lilt on the accent of our mother-language.

Leaving him to do whatever it is he does in my absence; I wandered about, exploring the building from the chandelier's control room to the kitchens, and so forth. I was strolling leisurely down a corridor, which I soon discovered belonged to a row of dressing rooms. Realizing I was approaching a dead end, I inevitably turned around, but stopped when I heard a fairly familiar voice from inside the room next to me, a room secluded from all the rest in that hall.

It was accompanied by yet another familiar voice. The first voice sounded somewhat jittery and excited, while the second sounded hushed and cautious. I heard the first voice address the second one as "Christine," so I assumed the former belonged to that other girl I met today, Meg Giry. They were having a most peculiar conversation about angels, where it sounded as though Christine believed whole-heartedly in one, but was having difficulty in convincing her friend.

I became aware of how shamelessly I was eavesdropping when a third voice jolted me out my transgression. I was sure it came from directly behind me, but when I jumped around, there was no one there. There was only one route anybody could've come and gone by, but the corridor was completely vacant. The voice had been deep, even borderline-threatening. It had spoken in French, but seeing as I knew very little of the language (I had foregone it as long as humanly possible in school), I didn't catch every word; just something that sounded along the lines of "leave" and "quickly" or "rapidly…" hardly inviting terms.

"Who's there?" I called out. I received no answer other than the gentle wavering of the flames in the hall's gas lamps.

"Joseph? Jacques?" Imagine how stupid I felt when the door to the dressing room opened and two curious faces peered out at me, standing directly in front of it.

Several choice-words tumbled through my mind as the realization dawned on me that I'd been suspected of my previous crime of eavesdropping. At first, Christine Daae's bubbly blue eyes widened in surprise upon seeing me there. But then she smiled and the other one, Meg, smiled as well.

"Sidney? What are you doing here?" Christine asked.

"Nothing. Just exploring a bit and I—,"

"—Got lost?" Meg interjected. Grasping for any alibi at that point, I nodded and shrugged, allowing a cheesy grin.

As if this wasn't awkward enough, I was to be put in even further torture by being invited into the dressing room. Me. An undercover boy…shut in an enclosed space…surrounded by the enemy. It's not that I had anything against them or girls in general. Most girls just didn't know how to accept me and my tomboy differences, my opinions, and my views on the simpering, dogmatic, traditionalist perspectives of women's roles in society. Over time, I gave up on them, and just happened to make friends easily with boys.

"It's a shame we didn't get a chance to converse much, earlier." Meg gestured for me to sit down, which I did rigidly, and they followed suit.

"Well," I began nervously before remembering to deepen my voice, "You know Joseph. Can't leave him alone for a minute."

"Really? It seemed to us to be the other way around." I didn't quite understand what she was implying and so I didn't reply.

Meg exchanged a knowing glance with Christine.

"It's probably just because you're new. Monsieur Buquet wants to be sure you are able to catch up with the rest of the crew; that and the fact that his younger brother has come so far to learn his skills."

Again I nodded. "Of course. He's a great teacher." Again, the exchanged glances between the two.

I felt increasingly uncomfortable and wanted nothing more than to bolt for the door, but I remained still. Christine suddenly stood.

"Come over here a moment, Sidney." Christine walked towards her vanity.

"Magpie." Both girls looked at me quizzically. "You can call me Magpie, if it's easier. Everyone else does." Truth being, it was easier for _me. _It was closer to my actual name, therefore I figured if I could get everyone to call me by my nickname more often than my fake name, I wouldn't have to be so alert all the time.

"Alright…Magpie." She lifted up two small white panels and held them out for me to study. Each held the image of a female mannequin in dance attire. I had to admit the apparel looked rather fetching for ballet uniform. Much detail and color had gone into both.

"Our ballet mistress has suggested the possibility of ordering new rehearsal outfits. Which would you suggest?"

I was dumbstruck. "You're asking me?"

Meg jumped up and joined us. "Why not? It's good to get a various range of opinions, especially from men, since they're the majority that watches us rehearse, anyways."

I looked over both images carefully. The first sample was a delicate shade of pink with a slim, yet light flowing skirt that rose a few inches above the knees. It appeared to have a rather tight bodice made of satin or some other material akin to it. The second option was a pale dusty blue, knee-length gauzy skirt with a white, flimsy, loose-fitting button-up top. There was a color key on the bottom of the panel which gave the choice of a pink or blue sash as a finishing touch. I raised my eyes to meet those of the two eager girls awaiting my judgment.

"Hardly either seems very practical." When they didn't answer I pressed on. "Well, speaking as a completely objective third party with no real knowledge of the matter, this first one looks as if one could scarcely breathe properly let alone dance or perform any type of complicated movement whatsoever."

"Some of the other girls thought it was quite lovely." Christine explained.

Meg added, "And it would better show off our figure. But you're absolutely right. Christine and I didn't care much for it, anyway."

I pointed to the blue and white one. "The skirt here seems fine, but the top…"

"Our current practice attire has a blouse made of similar material only they are tighter rather than comfortable." Said Christine.

"Ballet's not about being comfortable." Meg imitated an older woman's voice, which I guessed to be that of their ballet mistress.

"But it's better than the old ones. The blouse was intolerably loose, short and stiff, and not very becoming at all." Meg grimaced.

"So what do you think Sidney?" Christine brought my attention back to the two panels in her hands. I decided against reminding her to call me Magpie.

"You know, there's this remarkable material I saw once. It's form-fitting but stretchy; flexible and practical. It would allow you to move freely while still maintaining support. You should look into it. It might be worth your while."

Christine regarded me with that irksome knowing look, a slow smile tugging at one corner of her small mouth, as if she had some great secret to tell. I immediately grew self-conscious and lowered my gaze. Now would be as good a time as any to make a swift exit. As I made for the door, Christine called out for me to wait.

"Which skirt? You still haven't given a direct answer."

"The blue." I replied stoically.

"The blue." She repeated.

I gave a small nervous laugh. "After all, isn't blue every man's color of choice?"

And muttering a soft "good-bye" I disappeared out the door, high-tailing it out of that god-forsaken corridor. God, what was I thinking…? What were _they _thinking? I couldn't ever let myself be in a cornered situation like that again. They could've found out. Recalling their frequent curious glances, I began to have doubts.


	11. The Other Buquet

A/N: …

**A/N: ….More computer troubles….more finals….more sickness. My apologies. **

**Erik**

_"His skin is like yellow parchment, stretched taut over protruding bones, almost as though he was given more bone than flesh. His eyes are two deep black sockets with yellow orbs that glow like embers in the dark."_

Foolish Buquet…I grinded my teeth as I cursed him from my hiding place, above the stage. I watched him down below, reveling in the glory of being surrounded by a troupe of ballet rats. The crowded at his feet, all eager young imaginations thirsty for one of the Chief Sceneshifter's notorious ghost stories.

_"And his nose—there is no nose!"_

At this, every young girl gasped loudly. I rolled my eyes. What they found fascinating, I found nauseating. I was growing quite weary of these tall tales. A sudden movement from one of the auditorium doors caught my eye, and I focused in on the figure of a young man, leisurely striding toward the stage.

Ah yes, the _other_ Buquet. The one I had caught poking around Christine's dressing room. I leered at as he hung back from the crowd up onstage. The Buquet Brothers; both meddlesome, tiresome menaces. The younger one I could spare for now, but Joseph…he had grown too familiar at locating my presence; endlessly searching out my secrets. He had to be dealt with, and he would be this very evening.

**Maggie**

I found Joseph in the auditorium with a herd of ballerinas huddled about him onstage. I stood off in the shadows of the wings, listening to his twisted crock-and-bull story, watching the girls' exaggerated reactions.

_"You must be always on your guard or he'll catch you with his Punjab lasso!"_

He mimed being strung up by the neck, emitting more gasps from the ballet rats. After explaining exactly what a Punjab lasso was, the group dispersed, and I sauntered out of the wings to meet my brother.

"Not bad." I commented, dryly. "Do you happen to get paid for this little 'hobby'?"

"Stow it, Maggie. He walked away and I followed.

"Hello to you too, Sunshine."

"Did you manage to keep your nose out of trouble within the last hour?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but then thought for a moment. "Define trouble."

When he gave me that authoritative look—the one that says "spill the beans"—I relayed to him the story my small encounter with the two girls I'd met that afternoon.

"Jesus, Maggie." He sighed, grabbing a tool kit and turning to ascend the ladder leading to the first catwalk. I followed close behind.

"It's not like I meant to—"

"—Of course you never _mean _to, you just do it."

"Hey, don't go rubbing my nose in my mistakes. I'm not the only one who makes them, you know."

We stopped as Joseph hauled a backdrop a partial way up, eying the flaw that needed repair; more particularily, the one caused by my knife the previous evening.

"You say you heard a voice…a man's voice?"

"Hmm? Oh…yeah." I drew my focus back to the conversation.

"But there was no one there."

I rolled my eyes. "Don't go peddling that ghost bollucks to me, Joseph Buquet."

"Everything I've ever said about the ghost is true." He defended himself. "I've seen him with my own eyes!"

"Drunk or sober?" I teased.

"If you don't believe me, I can't help that."

Another long bout of silence rolled by and I watched him work on the canvas. I had something else on my mind, but wasn't quite sure how to start.

"So…what's going on?"

"How d'ya mean, Mags?" By his tone, I could tell he was annoyed.

"Hey, don't get snappy with me. I'm just trying to understand whatever it is I've done to piss you off!"

He sighed again while packing up his tools. "I'm not pissed off at you."

He stood and began lowering the piece of scenery down to the stage.

"Well you're irritated—or miffed—or something!" He started back towards the ladder.

"Never mind, Maggie." His tone warned me not to press the matter any further; which, of course, I did.

"Is it because of Danny?" I questioned, flatly.

Joseph halted, the tool kit in his hand swinging slightly from the abrupt change.

"…Because I used _his_ name?" I continued.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. Then Joseph descended the ladder without a word, dropped the tool kit unceremoniously on a nearby table, and briskly walked away. I called after him from where I still stood up in the catwalk, leaning over a railing.

"You have to get over it sometime, Jo!" I don't know that he heard me, and I felt a familiar wave of grief clutch at my heart.

"I had to."

**Joseph**

I gratefully inhaled the calming affects of a cigarette, puffing out clouds of smoke that intertwined with clouds of my warm breath against the cool November air. The sun had begun it's slow descent on the western horizon, casting shadows over the city of Paris, becoming eye-level with the Opera's rooftops. I came up here when I most wanted to be alone and try to think…or in some cases, try not to.

_Damn that little vixen. _I thought, vainly attempting to push Maggie's voice out of my head.

"_You have to get over it sometime!"_

Isn't that what I've been doing for the past six years? My thoughts hardly ever drifted towards home in the three years I'd been at the Opera Populaire…but they did now. I could still picture that small cottage just outside of Galway in Ireland; could still see Ma standing at the door, our youngest sister, Kessy, in her arms, Pa keeping a firm hold on Maggie's shoulders, her watery eyes never straying from my retreating form as she wailed at me to "stop being an idiot" and come back. But I could never go back. After what happened—with Danny, I knew I would never be welcome in the same way again no matter what anyone said. It wouldn't be forgotten, and things just wouldn't go back to the way they were. It was something Maggie had a very hard time coming to terms with. God bless that girl, she would follow me to the moon if it meant bringing me home. She had to realize that it would never happen.

**Maggie**

We ate our meal in the 'Buquet Chamber' that evening, since neither of us felt very sociable. There was much to talk about; a dinner conversation which started with a long round of silence.

"You should go home, Maggie. I'm sure Ma and Pa miss you, terribly."

I looked up from my bowl of stew to catch Joseph staring abstractly into his. "Like they don't miss you any less? "

"I can't. go. back. What the _hell _is so hard to understand about that? I have a new life here, new friends…" he slammed down his spoon, and rose from the table, muttering curses.

"I do understand, I do. But you're letting Danny's accident keep you from going back to people who love and care about you—"

"—They don't look at it as a bloody accident!"

We were both silent a moment before he continued in a steadier tone.

"We'd best get a move on. It's time to set up for tonight's gala." He opened the door, soup bowl in hand, pausing half-way out.

"Just for the record, I've been "getting over this" for six years."

The man lived in constant denial.

"Getting over it? No, more like getting _away _from it. Don't you ever get tired of running?" I never received an answer.


	12. Fate is Cruel

Author's Note: Thank you all for such wonderful reviews

**Author's Note: Thank you all for such wonderful reviews. Now that Joseph's dead and out of the way, I'll try to focus more on Erik and Maggie. ******

**Maggie**

_Sometime later…_

I don't know how I came to be here, back in our small accommodation. I suppose whilst I was in shock, a few stagehands brought me back, thrust a blanket over my shoulders, a warm mug of—something—in my hands, and left me to my grief.

He was dead. My older brother was dead and I was now alone in the world. The police were convinced it was suicide, but I knew better. They just didn't care. Why should they waste their time on a low-class stagehand? Joseph wouldn't kill himself. At one time, in the past, perhaps he had contemplated it. But that was then, he wouldn't now. Not while I was here.

What would I do now, go home? No I couldn't go home. I couldn't bear to face my mother and father and tell them they'd lost another child. The thought of traveling didn't appeal to me anymore. Why should it? The only reason I ever did was because of _him._ Life had lost all meaning in my eyes. So, it stopped, then and there. I passed through ephemeral phases of denial and anger.

Jacques came back and without a word, made himself comfortable in Joseph's sleeping arrangements on the floor. It was unexpected but my face didn't betray any emotion. It was a long, sleepless night with one or two outbursts of tears. If Jacques saw or heard me, he didn't say anything. He stayed by my side the entire night. I was grateful and silently welcomed him.

**Erik**

_It was not my fault…not really._

Oh, how a part of me wished to stay and watch the public reaction once news of Joseph Buquet's death spread. But nothing in the world would have me miss Christine's debut performance, which had proved to be a great triumph…hers and mine. I did pass back that way en route to one of my many secret passages, this one in particular, connected to Christine's dressing room. By then, the corpse of the chief scene-shifter was being carried away on a stretcher, a procession of police following after. Good riddance.

As I continued on my mission, my sharp eye caught sight of a familiar figure being half led, half carried away through the throng of curious onlookers. My mind registered this figure to be that of the younger brother, and I felt a vague, obscure sense of pity as my thoughts flashed back to my previous actions of that evening, including a certain promise I had made, though God only knows why I did.

When I arrived to my usual place behind Christine's dressing room mirror, I saw that she was not alone. I had expected this since she fainted onstage, after finishing the aria. That dear child…She gave everything she had in her that night, and I would make certain her efforts did not go unrewarded. However, in my opinion, there appeared to be more than fair share of men in her company. I quickly identified the middle-aged man examining Christine to be the doctor. The other, younger man, I did not recognize, nor did I care to.

My poor beautiful Christine. She looked so pale and exhausted. She had a slight smile on her face from laughing at some ridiculous proclamation the young man had made. After a few exchanged words between them, I learned that the pair had once been childhood companions. This was not welcome news to my ears. Suddenly, Christine perked up with a newfound energy and seemed more alert to her surroundings. I knew she sensed I was nearby.

"I am not ill, now!" she said.

The doctor, maid, and young man (whom I found out to be the Vicomte de Chagny), were abruptly dismissed, for Christine wished to be alone. I could faintly catch the doctor's last words as they left the room.

"She is not herself, tonight. Usually she is so gentle…"

Once she was alone, she openly acknowledged my presence. I praised her on her singing and asked if she was very tired. Heaving an exhausted sigh, she smiled slightly, eyes glowing.

"Tonight, I gave you my soul and I am dead."

Those words touched me beyond all measure. "Your soul is a beautiful thing, child. No emperor ever received so fair a gift. The angels wept tonight."

And it was true. No one in the world could be so lucky; so blessed. No one in the world had what I had. No one. She was mine, and mine alone. I had discovered Christine only a few short months ago in the chorus. It was a serendipitous moment when I happened to hear her voice. It was very unmistakably untrained and lacked passion, but it was beautiful all the same; the tone, clarity…everything else could be improved if someone took the time and patience to tutor her. However, I knew full well how complex it could be to find a well-qualified teacher these days, especially one willing to work with low-wage chorus members.

_Why not I?_ I knew everything there was to know about music. It was my life, the very core of my existence. I wouldn't take any money…not from her. She looked so sweet yet so sad at the same time. It seemed strange I had never given her much notice before. Now…how to go about this? If she saw me, she might immediately recognize me from Buquet's descriptions as the Opera Ghost and any hope of teaching her would be wasted. Unless there was a way I could always remain out of sight…but how strange would that seem? It would never work. My answer came only a short while later on one not-so-particular day when she came bursting into the ballet dormitories, speaking aloud to her deceased father, crying and imploring as to why he had not sent her the "Angel of Music" as promised after his death. She went on about how hard she tried to make it at the Opera, but wasn't getting anywhere.

"I'm afraid if I don't improve soon, I'll be dropped from the chorus altogether and spend the rest of my life as just another average dancer in the background," she had said.

An Angel of Music…for once, Fate was merciful, fate was kind. If this child truly believed in such entities, then perhaps this was my ticket in; the key to gain access into Christine Daae's life and hopefully change it for the better. By the time I was done, she would have the greatest and most sought after voice in all of France if not the world. She could have any role in any opera she wanted, and it would be because I made it so.

In the beginning, I didn't want to hurt her, but I was aware of the fact that I would have to continuously lie to her about my identity; indulge her whimsical fantasies about angels, heaven, and any other fairytale life forms. But I hadn't intended to ever reveal my true nature. I hadn't counted on ever letting her see or know me for who or what I was. I hadn't counted on even caring. Least of all, I hadn't counted on falling in love with her.


	13. Cat's Out of the Bag

**A/N: Long absence. My bad. Don't hurt me. **

**Maggie**

When I awoke, Jacques was gone. It was as if he were never there. Moving at a sluggish pace, I dressed for no real purpose other than to gain the feeling that I had accomplished something, small as it was. Then, I just sat. I sat on my brother's bed, in my brother's room, mentally racking through images of the past time we'd spent together. How quickly the memories seem to fade when you actually take the time to look back on them.

While in the process of—sitting, there was a quiet knock on the door and when I didn't answer, Jacques gingerly poked his head in.

"I come bearing a great feast." He announced, producing a plate of cheese bread and something to drink.

When I didn't budge, he set it all on the nightstand. Unnerving silence.

"So…how are you holding up?" I finally met his eyes.

"How do you think I'm holding up?"

Jacques held his hands up in defense. "You're right, dumb question." He sat next to me.

"What am I supposed to do, now?"

"Well, I wouldn't recommend working tonight. Not that anyone expects you to, anyway. But Monsieur Firmin asked me to tell you that he has some business to discuss with you."

"Fine."

He stood up. "I'll let him know you'll be up after breakfast."

"Not really that hungry."

"Well…try to be." And with that, he left me alone.

After several minutes of staring down the cheese bread, I decided to hell with it. Eating would just serve to make me more nauseous than I already felt, so I sucked in a deep breath, adopted a passive look, and ventured out into the world, head held high. A world confined within the Opera's walls, for it now was the only world I cared to know.

My meeting with Monsieur Firmin was very brief. I sat stone-faced in a very uncomfortable chair, facing his desk. The office reeked of cigar smoke, and seemed very dim even with the morning sun, which looked as though it wouldn't dare peek through the windows.

"First of all, allow me to give my condolences. I am sorry for your loss, young Mister Buquet." He couldn't have sounded more insincere. "I assume you know why I've requested you here this morning?"

I shook my head.

"Hmm, well, now that Mr. Buquet is—no longer with us, there is the pressing matter of settling his finances."

At mentioning this, I feared he would ask me for money I most certainly didn't have, but he surprised me.

"Being his next of kin, you will receive the remainder of his wages as well as a small compensation for your tragic loss. By the way, did your brother have access to any other financial means? A bank account…?"

"No, sir. My brother has no other money other than what he has been making here."

"I see. Well, I'm sorry to say it's not a very large pension, what's leftover. But it should tide you over for awhile until you've managed to save enough for yourself."

I nodded solemnly for lack of anything to say. The news wasn't particularly thrilling.

"That is all. You may go, now." Monsieur Firmin dismissed me.

Not keen on the idea of returning to an empty room, I wandered around the Opera House, again.

**Maggie**

Of all people, I had to have a run-in with Meg Giry and Christine Daae. It's not that I had anything against them, personally. I just couldn't stomach the thought of female social interaction or any social interaction for that matter. I was so tired; worn out from pretending to be something I'm not.

The moment they rounded the corner, I turned heel, pretending not to see them, and would've succeeded in my escape attempt if Meg hadn't called out my name. Damn. I turned around, slowly, slipping into my façade of grieving younger brother. Bollocks, how was _that_ supposed to look? My development of character was interrupted when Meg spoke.

"We heard the awful news. I'm so sorry, Sidney. Is there anything we can do for you?" Christine asked.

"No." I make a point of clearing my throat once I realized how soft and high-pitched I sounded.

"Christine and I were just on our way back to the ballet dorms. She's been staying with her foster mother. Come back and talk with us."

Before I could decline the invitation, I was pulled and herded along between the two of them. Minutes later, we were all sitting in the dorm room in whatever available seats we could find, and started talking like close friends. At least, _they_ did. I, on the other hand, didn't volunteer much information, and I felt they somehow sensed how much I wanted to be somewhere else.

"You know, I lost my father when I was just a young child."

'You mean young_er _child,' I thought, judging Christine to not be any older than I. On a bitterer note, losing a father wasn't the same as losing a sibling. I suppose in some cases it was a hundred times worse, but that depended on the relationship one had with the father. I loved mine very much, make no mistake, but we never exactly shared that unshakeable bond I had with Joseph. It felt as if we were something more powerful than brother and sister, more than best friends, though I don't know what that would be called. No, not like lovers. Let's not be perverse, here.

Trying to sound remotely sympathetic, I replied, "That must have been devastating."

She nodded, eyes watering. "He was like my best friend. More than that, even."

Hmm…perhaps I gave Christine far too less credit than I should have.

"Once he was gone, it was like…"

"…The world just stopped?" I finished for her.

Her cerulean blue eyes bore into mine. "Precisely."

We both suddenly realized that Meg was excluded from the conversation.

"What about you Me—Mademoiselle Giry?" Remember to play the gentlemen, keep my gender in check. She smiled mischievously at me before answering.

"My father's gone, too. I don't know where. I have no siblings."

"Well, it seems we all have one thing in common," I smiled, "We know what it's like to lose someone."

"Oh, I believe we have more in common that that." Meg bounced out of her seat, grabbing a few accessories from a nearby vanity.

"Really, like what for instance?"

"For instance, the fact that we're all girls." She grinned.

And my heart officially made the short jump from chest to windpipe.


	14. Whispers of Past and Present

A/N: only one review on last chapter…

**A/N: only one review on last chapter…********. Guess I won't rush to update in the future. **

**Maggie**

If a clock could reach infinity, I'm sure it passed by twice. No one moved. No one uttered a sound. They awaited my reaction. It was like a Mexican standoff.

"Wha—how did you know?" _Way to call her bluff_, even though we both knew it was true.

"We had our suspicions, but the matter over the ballet uniforms confirmed them."

Christine stood up with Meg, who explained, "No man would ever make a sensible _and_ fashionable decision at the same time."

"Not to mention, you're really not all that masculine for your age."

"And you and Joseph were nigh inseparable."

Well, there it was in a nutshell. In a sense (at least the female side of me) I felt relieved; relieved that _someone_ knew, which meant two less people I had to play this charade on. But now my identity was at stake.

"Are you—or have you—"

"Oh, Lord no! We figured you had your reasons." Christine assured me. "Your secret's safe with us."

"Thank you."

We chatted longer. During that time I explained my story as well as Joseph's and my decision to place me in disguise. I didn't mention anything about Danny, however. That subject was better left untouched. Meg excused herself to go in search of another ballet rat, Jammes. Christine promised to join her later. We took our time strolling through the corridor.

"…It was just easier to pretend I was a boy. He never explained why. I suppose he just couldn't deal with the humiliation of being shadowed by a tomboy sister. It's always been that way."

"You may be wrong, Maggie. The way you talk about him and how the two of you looked when you were together suggests otherwise.

"Yea…I was boy."

She laughed. "Even so, I'm sure there must have been other reasons…logical ones."

I nearly snorted. "There's nothing logical about a Buquet."

"Well, you've both proven that enough." We walked on in silence before she brought up the subject of her father again.

"I remember how difficult it was to go on after my father died. For a long time I was just an empty shell. I made no attempt to socialize or gain attention. I built up wall after wall until they surrounded me on all sides. Walls I was sure no one could get through."

Her eyes welled up again, but she hastily wiped them away and her features took on an expression of rapture.

"But suddenly, I wasn't alone anymore. There was my Angel."

_Angel._ I vaguely recalled the conversation I had heard earlier between Christine and Meg.

"Maggie, you must promise never to speak of this to anyone else. You'll probably think me crazy."

_Something along those lines…_

"You see, Papa used to tell me stories from our native land, Sweden. A little girl named Lotte was told tales about a special angel, the Angel of Music, and how he would come at night and sing songs to her. I believed in fairy stories so much back then, I suppose my father took advantage of it.

On his deathbed, he held my hand and promised me that the minute he walked through Heaven's pearly gates, he would find the Angel of Music and send him to me. That way, it would seem like Papa was right here with me. Well the Angel of Music did come. He's been giving me lessons for nearly three months, now."

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. "Not to sound condescending, but are you certain it's not just someone playing a trick or joke on you?"

She vigorously shook her head, a few gold curls bouncing in the process. "No, this is no joke. He's very real, more so than I could've ever imagined."

"What do you mean?"

Her hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, dear. I've said far too much. He doesn't like to be talked about, you know. They say that's what got Joseph Buquet into trouble. I've most likely put you in danger as well if he's been listening!"

I abruptly froze and narrowed my eyes. "What did you say? What do you mean it "got Joseph into trouble"?"

Christine looked at me as if I were an axe-murder. "Oh, God. You must forget everything I've told you. I wasn't thinking, forgive me."

She sprinted ahead before turning to face me again.

"Know this, that the Angel of Music is not a spirit but a man. A dangerously remarkable man."

And she disappeared before I could demand anymore information out of her. If this angel of hers had anything to do with Joseph's death, there would be hell to pay. First, I had to search him out.

I saw her again not much later, talking with Meg and another girl whom I assumed to be Jammes. She caught me staring, but quickly looked away as if my eyes would scorch her into the ground. One of them said something that sent the three of them into a fit of giggles. I felt a slight sting of jealousy at the fact that although Meg, Christine, and I had all lost someone dear, they still had someone else. Meg had her mother, Christine had her so-called Angel. I still had no one.

**Erik**

A woman. Sidney Buquet was a woman. That explained a great deal; the missing sister, the sudden appearance of Joseph's "brother," and the small peculiarities of the whole affair. I immediately felt like an incompetent ass, that I had not the foresight to see past the disguise; ever since her arrival, I had sensed something was amiss. I should've recognized the familiarity between the girl and her alter ego. Albeit, it was a great shock, but now the gears had been turning in my head. Now, it made sense what Joseph Buquet had said just before he died. I understood why he was so much more protective of his younger sibling. A man of my word, I would not harm the younger Buquet. But I wouldn't' let her off the hook so easily, either. And now, I had something to bargain with.

**Maggie**

The lunch hour came and passed on an empty stomach. It's not like I didn't try. Food just lost its taste and I didn't really see any point. Since I had time to kill (morbid, is it not?), I decided to give my hands something to do other than clenching and unclenching. I roamed about the stage, picking up debris and empty bottles. When I finished, I climbed up to the catwalks. It was only my third night here, and so I wasn't as fast at my task as the other stagehands. Perhaps now would be a good time to practice…on second thought, it would be better to leave things as they were. I didn't want there to be any delays of tonight's performance on my account. So, I sat, letting my legs dangle over the catwalk's edge.

Looking out over the multitude of empty seats below, my thoughts drifted elsewhere to another place, another time.

_**We had gone hiking. The day was sunny and surprisingly warm for early summer in Maycullen, which was near the bay of Galway. We stopped at the Quiet Man Bridge in Oughterard like we always did, and ate a packed lunch. I was 14, Jo was nearly 20. It was one of our last memorable times together before he left home. We sat on that bridge, letting our legs dangle over the edge. **_

_**"Look at those cuts and bruises all over your legs," he'd remarked. "No one's ever goin' to want to marry you if you keep actin' like such a tomboy." **_

_**I stretched out my legs and swung them back and forth like a small child. **_

_**"Good. I don't want to get married, anyway." **_

_**"You know that's all mum ever thinks about since you turned 13."**_

_**"She's not serious about it, Jo. She just gets…overexcited. Besides, I would give an earful, not to mention a fistful to any half-baked bloke she sends my way."**_

_**We laughed heartily over the visual. "That, you would, Maggie. That, you would." **_

_**We sat in blissful silence a few moments, lost in thought. "If I got married I would have to leave home. I think I would just shrivel up and die if I had to do that."**_

_**I was ever the melodramatic teenager…**_

_**"Well, someday, one of us is going to have to go. That's how life is. You go out and live it."**_

_**"Then wherever you go, I'll go." The thought seemed so simple at the time.**_

_**"It doesn't always work out how you want it, Maggie." **_

_**"And why not? I'm just as tough as you, just as quick. I won't drag you down."**_

_**"It's not your abilities that concern me, Mags. It's the fact that—well, every man's got to get out on his own. See the world, make a few changes in it, and make his own adventures. Live his own life."**_

_**"And a girl like me can't, is that it?" **_

_**"No, it's not like that at all. It's—"**_

_**"—A man thing. I know." **_

_**Neither of us spoke for a long awkward moment, until Joseph had to open his wide, wretched trap. What he said next sealed our fate. **_

_**"Besides, think of Mum and Dad. They'd be devastated if you left, especially Mum. She would chase the Devil Himself out of you at such a thought. You know how traditional and old-fashioned she is. It would be best for you to just stay here. **_

_**Grow up to be the proper lady I know is in there somewhere, and get married, have babies. Live a simple peaceful life, free of frets and worries, with a good man to take care of you." **_

_**My face scrunched up in disbelief and disappointment with each word and I leapt up from my sitting position, rigid with anger. **_

_**"No! How dare you! I won't sit around this boring countryside, caring for eight children and a drunken husband, watching my life go out the window! **_

_**I'll do what I want, go where I want, and not be forced to live up to other people's expectations. If you knew me at all, you'd have realized that by now."**_

_**I turned to hide my pathetic hysterics, not wanting my brother to see me cry, and took off running towards home, ignoring my brother's call. From that day on, I knew he would forever be running away and I would forever be following him as I followed him in everything else. **_

_And so it was, through good times and bad, I was never far from my brother. The world was not big enough to hide him from me. But now he was in a place where I could not find him. Where I could no longer follow. And at that time, it was the worst feeling I thought I could ever experience. _

_But that was before I met __**him**__, and felt a love even stronger than of that between me and my brother. This love filled me with so much, yet emptied me inside-out at the same time. _


	15. Ghosts of the Mind

A/N: Warning-this chapter will be a good deal longer than previous chapters

**/A/N: Warning-this chapter will be a good deal longer than previous chapters and may not necessarily my best work. Let me know if it tends to drone on and on. In case you're confused about certain terms, "Eejit" is Irish slang for someone of reduced intellectual capacity or as we know it, "idiot." **

**Maggie**

I attended my post for the evening's performance and attempted to be of some use. However, my attempts were foiled when I caught Jacques's eye. We bantered briefly, him claiming me a fool for doing labor when I should be in mourning, and I futilely tried persuading him otherwise.

"You can't expect me to just sit around and do nothing." I replied wearily. "I need to give my hands something to do. I'm tired of talking to people."

"I don't want you up here for the time-being! What if something went wrong?"

"Nothing will, I'm fine."

"If something unexpected divided your concentration…I'm sorry, I just can't take that risk."

"Jacques, I'm not—,"

"Go on! Just go!"

He left me there; quite stunned that he had raised his voice. He didn't seem like the type that normally would. I suppose grief does strange things to a person's mind. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed we had drawn the attention of the other stagehands as they tried to avoid making eye-contact with me, pretending not to have witnessed the scene. I passed Remy on my way back down the catwalk ladder.

"He's not a bad guy," he said softly, referring to Jacques.

"He's just concerned, is all." I said nothing, but laid a hand gratefully on his arm before descending and heading back to my prison cell.

It was much later when I decided to venture out again. The show was long over and I hadn't seen Jacques or anyone else for that matter, for the rest of the evening. The House had grown dark and quiet, indicating there were few or next to none still roaming about. Although I was still alone, it felt somewhat satisfying due to the fact that I was no longer confined in that shabby room for hours on end.

Now, I was free to walk about, get a change of scenery. That was another thing about Joseph and I—we didn't do well staying in one place too long. Before I knew it, I ended up at the Opera's Grand Staircase in the foyer. Though the moon was not as brilliant as it was the night I arrived, it still glowed softly through the windows, chasing shadows across the floor. I fondly remembered my moonlight skate two nights ago when frightened me half to death.

_"Shouldn't go wanderin' about at night." _ Pieces of the conversation came back to me.

_"Could stumble upon somethin' you weren't meant to find."_

I never did find out what he meant by that. I doubted the floors had been cleaned yet this evening, but they still gleamed under the dim light, calling my name, inviting me to play. So, I did.

My stockings were filthy, there was dust on my hands, but I didn't care. There was no one there to see me. I took my cap off and let my hair fly free. Back home, we used to ice skate all the time when the weather was cold enough to allow it. We had the most memorable times skating on whatever frozen lake or river we could find. But all that was before Danny's accident. After that, Joseph nor I ever wanted to see another body of water again. However, both of us had to overcome that fear in order to leave Ireland. It wasn't easy.

Now, I skated alone. I wasn't going to cry about it. I had gone the whole day without doing so, hadn't I? Why start now? I was tougher than that.

I decided to grant myself one last slide across the floor before the weakening moonlight disappeared completely. I took off at a run before gliding towards the staircase. What happened then was quite unexpected. I noticed a shadow disconnect from the other shadows. My mind raced at a thousand miles in those two seconds.

_What's that…? Joseph…he can't be there…_

Within that flyby thought, I felt the shadow latch onto my wrist, pulling me off balance until I collided into solid mass. Before I could utter a sound, another hand shot out and covered my mouth. By the strength and build of the stranger, I realized it was a man, but I didn't know who. And that terrified me.

"Quiet!" he hissed in my ear.

His voice, although mesmerizing, was not one I easily recognized. Naturally, I ignored his command. Any female in the process of abduction would do anything but keep quiet. I thrashed and kicked, mumbling into the glove-clad hand, which was cold and smelled awful even through the glove.

"Mademoiselle Buquet, you would be wise to do as I say."

I stilled, instantly. He knew. But _how _did he know? The only two souls in this whole theatre that I had confided in were Christine and Meg. The stranger took advantage of my shocked state by dragging me into the darkness with him. My mysterious captor didn't go far before I heard barely detectable movement and I found my self in unfamiliar territory. It was still quite dark. The moonlight didn't reach here…there was no light at all. As if sensing my thoughts, my captor released his hand from my mouth, declaring various threats to my security before doing so.

"We are well out of sight. Even if by chance, anyone could hear you they wouldn't know where to find you."

He still wouldn't turn loose my wrists and they were becoming increasingly sore. He was either oblivious to it or ignoring my attempts at twisting them about to restore some circulation.

"Let go of me hands, will you?! You're hurting me!" I realized my accent regained some of its usual thickness through frustration, anger or fear.

"I'm afraid I can't do that. I can provide an alternative, however."

He produced a thin, strange-textured rope from somewhere on his person and bound my hands behind me.

"What do ya want from me?" I shouted, futilely trying to squeeze my hands out of their bonds. If I could just reach my knife (which I had recently moved from the hilt strapped to my leg to my pocket)…

"All in good time, Mademoiselle," he smirked at my glowering expression, guiding me along so I didn't fall behind.

I finally asked, "Are you extremely sensitive to light or somethin'?"

"No."

"Well, would it hurt to have a little, then?"

I was growing ever more annoyed at the fact that I was being unwillingly pulled further and further into the dark with no real source of light for guidance. Unexpectedly and wordlessly granting my wish, a match was struck and I saw the flame reflect in a glass object I soon recognized to be a lantern. I didn't see much of the mysterious man in the faint light, but I swore I caught something—unusual about his face. It seemed so pale, unnaturally so. He held the lantern out in front of him.

"After you." He gestured.

A short time later, I could hear the sound of water and we approached the edge of some foreboding body of water. The dim light shone on a small boat I had only seen in pictures and postcards; a gondola, like the ones they used in Venice. As soon as I realized he meant to continue by boat, I panicked. I have mentioned that neither Joseph nor I were terribly fond of the water since that one tragic day. And although we've side-stepped our fear when the need called for it, I was still deathly afraid of the water, to the point of nausea.

And so, when I abruptly halted and refused to budge, my captor interpreted this as a refusal to cooperate and make a run for it. I barely caught the movement before I felt my arm enclosed in an iron grip. He attempted to drag me over to the boat and I lost it. Flashbacks of Danny's accident raced through my mind.

"Wait! Please, no! I don't want to go in there! I can't."

But he wouldn't stop, and lifted me off the ground. I screamed thrashed ferociously.

"No! You don't understand! Please, don't!"

I don't know if it was the screaming, the kicking, or the tears that made him stop, but he hesitated and finally put me down on safe ground, still keeping a firm hold on me in case this was some ruse to make my escape. I could feel my heart pounding as if a wild animal were trapped inside my chest and tried to focus on controlling my ragged breathing.

"Look, you've got me far away from any living being and even if I tried to run I wouldn't know where to go in this black oblivion. Whatever it is you want, I'll do it. Just don't take me _anywhere_ near the water."

He regarded me for a moment, not saying anything. I didn't meet his eyes. Sighing in resignation, he led me to another dark corner of the dark cavern and there we stopped altogether. He pushed me firmly down into a sitting position on the cold stone floor.

"Forgive the lack of comfort. I was planning on holding this discussion in a more civilized, hospitable establishment, but that would have required crossing the lake."

"Hang the small talk, what do you want?"

"Plucky girl. You have no idea who I am, do you?"

"Should I care?"

He smirked. "Indeed, perhaps you should. I have a request to make…more of a deal, really."

I quirked an eyebrow. "With me? What could I possibly have that would be of interest or use to you?"

"The fact that you're a woman." He chuckled upon seeing the color drain from my face.

"No, I assure you my intentions are strictly professional. While your true identity escaped my notice for some time, your apparent friendship with mademoiselle Daae, has not."

I frowned. "I wasn't aware I was even considered a part of her social circle."

"She took you into her confidence, did she not? Conveyed personal information to you about her father?"

"How would you—"

"Believe me, I have my ways of knowing. I'm like a ghost of sorts, but that's beside the point. The fact is she confides in you because she trusts you."

He paused and after a long moment of silence, I asked, "What are you getting at?"

This man was obviously off his rocker. I felt around for a rock or anything that could serve as an aid to my escape. He apparently noticed my shifty gaze and guessed my intentions.

"Look me in the eye when I'm speaking and perhaps I'll tell you."

As much as I didn't want to, I raised my eyes to meet his and was undeniably startled at how bright they were, especially in such dim lighting. I also discovered that the unusual pale glow of his face that I had noticed before was an illusion caused by the white mask he wore, covering the majority of his face, leaving an opening for the eyes, mouth and nostrils.

"I require information relating to mademoiselle Daae."

What the devil did this eejit want with Christine Daae? Why should I do anything he says?

"And what if I don't?"

"I know you lost your brother. You may feel that the world can't possibly take anything more from you. But I can."

I didn't believe him. What did I have left? "Like what?"

"Oh, whatever comes to mind, really. I could have you dismissed—trust me, I do have that power--, I could torment you endlessly on a daily basis…or if need be, I could simply kill you here and now and be done with it. The options are endless."

My eyes widened at his last comment and I found it somewhat difficult to swallow. I knew that while wallowing in grief and self-pity I had little desire to go on living. But now, when actually placed in a life-threatening situation, I wasn't as brave at facing Death as I thought. Little did I know I was already facing him.

"Let me add, if you accept this task I will look after your welfare. You won't ever have to worry about being turned out on the streets, whatever necessities you require you won't be without."

I mulled this over for a moment. Although I've always managed to take care of myself in nearly any situation, life could be made considerably easier if I agreed to assist this mad man. I wouldn't need to "just survive," I could have everything I needed without any great sacrifice.

"What kind of information would you require?"

He smiled in knowing he had captured my interest. "Anything you can get. Her likes, dislikes, deepest secrets and desires, and other such trivialities."

"And why can't you just go and ask her yourself like any normal person?"

"You may have noticed I'm not like other _normal _people."

_Could've fooled me,_ I muttered under my breath.

"Besides, I'm frequently tied up with business and can't spare much time for—socializing—which is why I need you."

"Why do you need me to do this? What exactly are your intentions concerning Christine Daae?"

I wished I hadn't asked. His toned turned dark and bitter when he replied.

"My business is my own and you will do well to not ask of my reasons again, understood?"

I nodded slightly before subconsciously slipping off to ponder over this strange and unorthodox request. I had no reason to do this, but then again, I had no reason not to.

"It looks as though I've got nothing to lose…I'll do it."

Instead of leading me back to—wherever it was we started from—I was escorted to what I vaguely recognized to be the second cellar and that's where he stopped.

"This is as far as I go, mademoiselle."

"How am I supposed to find you?"

"I'll find you." He turned to leave, but I still had one question left.

"Wait." He stopped and looked back at me expectantly as if I were now just a waste of his precious time.

"Why me? You don't even know me."

He was a moment before answering, "I know enough for the time-being. I can't trust anyone else. The few friends she has are, quite frankly, scared to death of me and I'm fairly certain there would be frequent failure to cooperate. For some inexplicable reason, I have this feeling that you will prove reliable and loyal."

He nodded curtly in my direction and melted into the darkness behind him before I could ask any further questions. I hadn't even had the chance to ask his name. It was late and the evening's events were taking a toll on my weary body. For tonight, I would try to get as much rest as I could and refresh my mind for tomorrow, when I would berate myself for getting into yet another mess.

"You're sure not eating much," Jacques commented as I abandoned my breakfast bowl, yet again.

"Well, perhaps I'm just not hungry." I replied nonchalantly, tugging on my boots.

"Well, perhaps you ought to eat anyway, just for good measure."

I appreciated his rather reserved concern for my health, and I felt a twinge of guilt for being the cause of this concern.

"Jacques, I really do appreciate all you've been doing for me—"

"It's what Jo would've wanted," he solemnly interjected.

It was then within that statement that I began to realize something. I remembered something Joseph had said.

_"What kind of brother would I be to not look after my sister?"_

It was dawning on me that Jacques was trying to fill in the empty void that Joseph had left behind by assuming the role of a brother, not that he would ever admit it. Unfortunately, he wasn't the one to fill that void. But I didn't have the heart to tell him just then. So, I placed my hand on his shoulder.

"I can take care of myself. Don't feel that you're under any obligation to me or him."

"It's got nothing to do with obligation. Jo was one of my best mates. Who knows, maybe his soul will rest easier in knowing that everything he left behind is taken care of? The last thing we need around here is that sorry sod's ghost hanging about—oh…"

He meant nothing disrespectful by what he said, but when he realized he'd used a rather morbid turn of phrase—considering how Joseph died—he abruptly stopped, placing a hand over his mouth and closed his eyes in silent rebuke.

"Sidney—I apologize. I honestly didn't mean…" he faltered.

I dismissed any sign of angst and pasted the first of many false smiles to come on my face. "Don't worry about it. I know what you meant."

We silently made our way up to the auditorium to run through my duties for the evening's performance. I know Jacques still felt uncomfortable about carrying on a conversation after his morose comment, so I tried to make him feel more at ease by subtly asking him something that had been pestering me since he mentioned it.

"I've noticed there's a lot of—strong belief in the supernatural, here."

Jacques smiled. "I take it you don't believe in anything such as ghosts."

"As a matter of fact, I do. But probably not the kind of ghosts you're referring to."

"Well, what other kinds are there?"

Once again, my mind was seized with images of Danny; images that would forever haunt and torment me.

"The kind that exist in the mind."


	16. In All Honesty

**A/N: Yes, believe it or not readers, I am still alive! And as not to bore you with long, uninteresting details of my delay, I present chapter 17.**

**Maggie**

The days passed slowly into December.

I hardly ate. And when I did, it wasn't much.

Jacques and some of the others continued to worry, and I continued to brush them off.

I finally heard the infamous La Carlotta…and wished I hadn't.

Salty and a few others had a good hearty laugh at the expression on my face when I listened during rehearsal, the night Carlotta was to resume the role.

"It's not _that_ terrible, just…overwhelming."

"In the worst possible way," Remy added.

There was no mention of who was to be the new chief scene-shifter. Whatever belongings found on my brother, including his ring of keys, was passed to me. I gave the keys to Jacques save for the one that went to the door of what was now solely my little hovel.

"One of these days you'll be promoted, and these keys will be coming right back to you." He predicted.

"Well, that depends on whether I'm still here or not."

Jacques knitted his brows in confusion. "Why wouldn't you be?"

"That's the thing about Buquets, Jacques. They never stay in one place too long…or haven't you figured that yet?"

I spent the better part of the morning determining what I was going to say to Christine. For the first couple of days after spilling her secret about her Angel of Music, she avoided me. If our paths crossed, she took off like a jackrabbit. I started thinking about what would happen at my next encounter with the enigma I was now employed under, especially if I couldn't provide the adequate information he sought. This motivated me to snatch any opportunity to catch Christine alone.

I soon got my chance. It was the last night of Faust and there was rumor of the managers receiving a threatening note from the infamous phantom, demanding that Christine Daae sing the main role of Marguerite for the final performance.

So, later that morning, the managers and perhaps 1/3 of the company put their two cents in over the situation for the first half of rehearsal. Madame Carlotta had returned, also demanding the role be reassigned solely to her. Remy, Blackcap, and I lounged in the wings seeing as rehearsals had come to a halt. I felt rather sorry for Christine as she stood by, tolerating Carlotta's verbal abuse.

"Christine Daae doesn't have the voice!" Carlotta whined. "It was my part to begin with and it's mine to finish!"

"But Signora," Monsieur Firmin beseeched, "With Mademoiselle Daae singing, the House has been sold out!"

"She's good for business," his partner, Armand Moncharmin added, earning a disapproving glare from Firmin.

"And _I _never was?!" Carlotta screeched.

And so, the banter continued. Christine looked close to tears, and while I wasn't terribly keen about her, I couldn't help but wish she would speak out, stick up for herself. It was finally decided that Christine would end the production of Faust for the public's sake. The managers left and people began filtering back onstage to start rehearsal. The boys and I started moving back to our positions. Carlotta hadn't left and I noticed her cornering Christine, raising her voice for all to hear.

"You never had sufficient talent for a leading role before. So, who has been teaching you?"

Christine visibly cowered under the diva's harsh gaze.

"N-no one, Madame."

"Liar! One does not simply rise from the chorus to limelight overnight! You must be in good company with those fool-hardy managers. Was it because of their influence you got where you are now?"

As soon as the accusation left her mouth, everyone who was listening or pretending not to listen became dead silent. Christine head snapped up, staring her rival in the eye, the hurt expression on her face transforming to one of defense.

"How dare you suggest a thing, you evil woman!"

"Don't deny it, you little vixen! Shy little Christine Daae, sleeping around for the sake of position!"

There were several gasps from the dancers and chorus members. Tears trickled down Christine's face, fully aware that because of her silence in regard to her tutor, the rumor was now set and spreading like wildfire.

"How can you be so hateful?" she whispered.

"I'm generally not kind when something is taken from me," Carlotta sneered. "How else would you snatch the limelight? I am the Opera's Prima Donna; I have acquired the honor, the fame, through means of pure talent and status. I have pushed myself through singing lessons, I have been well-disciplined; all to share my gift with the world. The only way a poor, feeble brat like you could gain such opportunity would be to work hard…in the bedroom."

A sharp slap rang through the air, and was surprised to find it delivered from the hand of Christine Daae. _'Bravo,'_ I silently cheered. As the realization of what she'd just done dawned on her, I rushed to her side before she could dissolve into an emotional mess. I looked down my nose at Carlotta, which was fairly difficult to do as she was the taller.

"Last time I checked, Madame, _any _two people are entitled to the same moral rights, even if one is rich, wise, powerful and famous, and the other is not." Not allowing her any time for a comeback, I led Christine away.

Safe in Christine's dressing room, she broke down and cried while all I could do was attempt to sincerely console her and, personally, wish she would put a cork in it soon.

"How can she be so vile? I never did anything to her."

"She sees you as a threat, and one will do almost anything to eliminate a threat."

She wiped at her eyes with a dainty white kerchief bearing her initials in blue stitching. "What the company must think of me now…"

"I wouldn't fret too much about it. Tomorrow, there'll be some new rumor about someone else, and everyone will forget what she said." She gave a genuine smile, which led me to babble on. "And I guarantee the one thing people will be talking about most is how that banshee got put in her place."

We both cracked up laughing. Recovering from the fit of giggles, I took a moment to glance around at Christine's belongings, grasping any useful insight to Christine's personal life. My eyes landed on a white wooden vanity, briefly scanning the few objects strewn about it. Hair ribbon, stage makeup, a fan, hairbrush—and something small and gold that winked at me, but I couldn't determine what it was. Christine caught me spying at her trinkets and smiled. She glided toward the vanity to pick up the golden thing, and then returned to sit across from me, holding out her hand to reveal a simple gold, oval-shaped locket with a star engraved on front. Opening it, she showed me a picture of a friendly-looking man and a lovely blonde woman.

"They're beautiful," I remarked, in all honesty. Christine smiled and nodded, gazing into their black and white faces.

"Mother died when I was very little, then Father was taken by an illness just a few years ago. It's—it's not been easy."

I could sense the waterworks would appear any moment, so I changed the subject. "Do you have many friends, here?"

"No, not many. I get along with mostly everybody, but I guess I'm not what you'd call sociable. Meg's about the closest friend I have. She is nearly four years younger, though."

"Really? I thought she was your age. How old are you?"

"Twenty. Twenty-one come spring. What about you?"

"The same. Joseph was nearly five years older."

"You and your brother got along well, didn't you?"

I was vaguely aware of my eyes growing distant as Christine's had done when mentioning her parents, and I stared off into space.

"Actually, we fought quite a bit. But I guess I wouldn't have it any other way."

Judging by the confusion on her face I assumed she had no siblings to speak of, and therefore couldn't fully comprehend what I meant.

"You don't have any brothers or sisters, am I right?" She shook her head.

"I've always wanted a younger sister. I suppose that's how thought of Meg when we became close; a sister as well as a friend. But I'm sure it's not the same. It must be a blessing, I can only imagine."

I snorted. "Huh, a blessing _and_ a burden."

Our conversation was soon joined by Meg. After our stomachs declared it time for lunch, we headed to the café.

"I'm glad you're singing tonight, Christine. I can't take much more of that God-awful sow."

Christine gaped at her companion's choice of words. "Meg how can say such things?"

"She's a horrible woman! I think Mag—," she caught herself, remembering we were in public, "Err—_Sidney _put her right in her place, the witch."

I laughed at Meg's perturbed expression while Christine, once again, reprimanded her friend's language.

"Honestly, if your mother could hear you, now…"

Boy, if Christine thought Meg's language was bad, what would she think of mine?

"Ah, what would she do, feed me to the ghost?"

"I'm thinking about it, young lady!" another voice interjected.

We turned to see Meg's mother, the Opera's box keeper, Madame Giry marching toward us in a distressed manner. Madame Giry—whose first name I never did know nor did anyone else, because she kept it strictly confidential—was an older woman and a rather amusing character, if I do say so myself. I'd never talked to her, really, but one learns a lot from the Hell's Angels band of brothers. Her husband, Jules, had died years back, but she was still always seen in an old, frumpy, fading black taffeta dress, worn shoes, and a funny bonnet with wilting feathers. I had seen her from time to time, leaving Box 5—the ghost's box or so I was told.

"Margaret Giry, what's this I hear about you, skipping the end of rehearsal?! You're not going to be lead dancer for long if you don't take this position seriously."

Meg was positively gelatin under her mother's fierce temper. "But Mama, I had to make sure Christine was alri—,"

"—Christine is just fine, as you can see. Be cautious, girl. You know you were only considered for the position because of the ghost. He gave it to you, and he can take it away! Which brings me to another thing, Meg Giry, you've been gossiping about the ghost again, haven't you?"

Christine and I had backed slowly away, eyeing Madame Giry like she was a snake ready strike anything that moved. Meg's eyes shifted toward us, and our faces conveyed our pity for her.

"Just stories, mum. It was only a bit of fun, they're not hurting anybody!"

"Does everything I say go in one ear and out the other? I've told you the ghost does not like to be talked about!"

The good Madame chastised her daughter a few more minutes before allowing her to go to lunch with us. As she passed by me, she gave a sympathetic half-smile.

"I am so dreadfully sorry about your brother, young Buquet. But I was quite right," she stared off into nothing, "Joseph Buquet had no business talking about things that didn't concern him. I told him it would bring bad luck, and unfortunately, it did."

She nodded curtly and briskly walked back down the corridor, leaving me speechless. I didn't know what to think and quite frankly didn't know how to handle this information. Meg rushed to me while Christine stared after the woman's retreating back.

"What in the world was that about?" Christine breathed.

"I'm sorry, Sidney. She shouldn't have said that." Meg placed a hand on my arm.

I finally managed to find my voice. "So why did she?"

Meg shook her head. "I've given up trying to figure her out. But she's always been extremely superstitious about the ghost. She's always on my back about telling tales about him. But it's because I have actually seen him! She's seen him too. She just won't tell anyone."

"I can't believe she could be so unfeeling about Jo. I know he wasn't the best card in the deck, but…"

"It's just Mama's way. She's always been a bit overdramatic. I don't mean to sound cold, but I do have to agree with her. Joseph Buquet ought to have held his tongue. He was always talking about the ghost, spreading rumors like a disease. Mother tried to warn him more than once. I guess he just didn't care to listen and now he's paid for it."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Were there more secretly against Jo than I cared to know about? Did I really want to know? My senses were clouding up with these thoughts and with increasing disgust towards Meg's analysis. I had to leave; go somewhere quiet.

Christine tried to catch eye contact. "Are you alright?"

"Excuse me." I whispered, brushing past them.

"I'm sorry to be so blunt, Maggie."

I faced Meg. "You spread wild stories just as much as he did. Perhaps, you ought to heed your mother's advice, and hold your own tongue."

I didn't look to see her expression change. I fled to the second cellar as quickly as I could, going without lunch or anything else the rest of the day for that matter.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"_Joseph Buquet had no business talking about things that didn't concern him..."_

"_Joseph Buquet ought to have held his tongue..."_

"_Mother tried to warn him…"_

They're voices rang out through my head. As I sat there, thinking…thinking.

"_I told him it would bring bad luck…"_

"_I guess he just didn't care to listen…"_

I know my brother told the ghost stories, I had heard them. I had scolded him for it. But it didn't make me disregard him. It didn't make me think less of him. With each day here, it seemed I was discovering one more person who had some kind of trouble with Jo, and it made me wonder. Just how well-liked was Joseph? Everyone who consoled me, everyone who gave condolences…just how many of them were pretending? My weary brain couldn't sort out who was sincere and who didn't give a damn.

There were too many things to think about. So, worn out from thinking, I fell asleep and decided to worry about it later.


	17. La Vie En Rose

**A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews. Glad to know I haven't lost all of you. ****Also, ****Mucho Importante! ****I did a little editing and took out chapter 13 or 14, and tacked a part of one chapter to a previous one. So, just to be clear, there is no encounter scene with Erik and Christine, anymore. Erik never took her, and she never saw him. Not yet…That is all. **

**Maggie **

It was much later. The performance was over and had gone without incident. What preoccupied my thoughts now was the masked apparition. Would he come tonight? Was this all just a hoax or better yet, a dream, and he wouldn't come at all? I kept busy, checking the flies, cleaning up, trying to forget. But there wasn't much left to do, and so he continued to haunt my mind. I trudged exhaustedly through the corridors, wanting nothing more than to crash face-down on the pitiful-excuse-of-a-bed in my personal dorm closet in the cellar. My hopes were dashed however, when I saw the piece of paper on the bed. I opened it to reveal a short, blunt message in red scrawl.

_Meet at third cellar entrance at 10:30. Come alone._

_Don't be late._

_-O.G._

"Opera Ghost." I murmured. A name I was now quite familiar with, after being clued in by the other stagehands. "So, it's to be tonight, is it?"

I had no idea what the time was, but I must've been early, because I didn't see him there. Of course, it was so pitch dark I couldn't see _anything_ beyond the third cellar entrance, which is probably why I nearly blew out my boot laces when I was startled by a voice from behind.

"I told you not to be late."

Gasping, I twisted around, instinctively preparing my body for defense against an attack. And there he was…the masked peril, ghost extraordinaire, shrouded in black.

"You said 10:30."

"It's five minutes past."

"So sorry," I muttered. "How does one earn forgiveness from a ghost?"

His silent glare answered my question. "Don't let it happen again."

His tone was brusque, unattached and seemingly in a hurry to get this over with.

"Well, are you going to stand there, gaping or are you going to give me some sort of useful information?"

I immediately caught myself staring, which made him fidgety and uncomfortable. He sighed in annoyance, and began pacing slowly, back and forth. I managed to find my voice and thought back to the conversation between Christine and I earlier that day. I wasn't quite sure where to start.

"Well…she likes…pretty…things." I stammered. He halted abruptly.

"_Pretty Things?" _He spat. "A young woman liking _pretty things…_how illuminating."

Biting my lip at the stupid mistake, I tried again. "Look, she likes lacey things, and—and hair ribbons!"

His resumed pacing had grown more agitated. I urgently pressed on.

"And there was a locket--"

My stomach turned back flips as he flew at me so fast, my street-wise instincts had no chance, and I was in a fierce lock, arm twisted mercilessly up behind my back before I knew what happened.

"A l—locket," I gasped in pain, "with photographs of her mother and father."

"Ribbons and lace, a locket she wears constantly around her neck. Wouldn't you agree these were mere trifles I might've already known?!"

I struggled ferociously to break free, he was just too strong.

"It would've…helped…if you'd told me what…you already knew!" And regaining some street-fighting sense, I in-stepped as hard as I could on his foot.

Growling in pain, he threw me roughly down on the ground.

"Damn you! You'll regret that."

"At least now I know ghosts feel pain!"

He looked ready to strike again, but withheld and composed himself. I groped for a wall to pull myself up.

"I suppose it would've been sufficient to make you aware of what I consider 'useful' information." He grunted.

"Would've been _smart_ is what it would've been."

I earned another threatening glare from those yellow demon eyes.

"For such a _small_ woman you've got a rather _large_ mouth."

"Irish." I panted heavily, both hands on my knees as my breathing returned to normal.

Composing himself into a fearless, all-powerful being once more, he addressed me in a stern but controlled tone.

"You have greatly disappointed me, Mademoiselle. But I sense very strong character in you. I'll give you one last chance."

Confusion as well as relief washed over me as I accepted the fact I wouldn't have to fight the man who, a moment ago, wanted to end my life, and very well could have.

"Maybe I should ask what _exactly_ I'm supposed to be looking for?"

"Everything besides the obvious. The little things that any other mere acquaintance could perceive about her are of little importance to me."

I nodded. "Fine, I'll try."

"No, you'll _do _it or fail. There is no try."

If there was one thing—amongst many—that I hated, it was being pressured into something I was unsure of. I didn't do so well under pressure. Before I had the chance to respond he turned away, his cape faintly swishing with the movement.

"I trust we will not have to go through a similar confrontation again?" He called out before disappearing into the third cellar's black void.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

This time I devised a fool-proof plan. I would take both Christine and Meg out for a night on the town, just us girls. Or rather, two girls and one feminine-impaired, cross-dresser, as my brother would put it. When I finally tracked them down and invited them out, Meg was all for it. Christine was not.

"But it's quite late, and we still have one performance left tomorrow. We'll need to save all the energy we have for it."

Despite her protests, Meg and I begged and pleaded enough for her to give in.

"Very well. I'll go if…"

Uh-oh. Conditions. The last thing I wanted was conditions. I wasn't going to make a game out of this. Although technically, I think I would be considered hypocritical, as I was already in a game, a game of deceit with Christine Daae. A game to learn her darkest desires for a purpose, for a person unknown to me. Meg and I practically held our breath waiting for her to finish.

"…If you go as Maggie instead of Sidney."

I looked to Meg only to see the dawn of a mischievious smile on her face.

"You want to trot that by me again?"

"Awe, come on, Maggie," Meg took hold of my arm. "Why not take a night off from this little façade?"

"Because I can't! What if someone should recognize me?"

"We could make you unrecognizable!" Christine exclaimed.

There was an eager gleam in her eye I didn't much care for. At this point, I grasped for any way out.

"But I make a lousy lady, really I do! Something my mum and Joseph never let me forget."

As soon as his name slipped, I turned gravely silent. Christine attempted to change the subject.

"We'll help you."

"Wouldn't it be better to have me along as a male escort?"

"Hmm, Good point. She's right, it would." Meg agreed.

"No," Christine continued firmly, "I think it's high time for you to come out of your shell."

I broke away from my position between them.

"My shell is just fine thank you."

"Then I'm not going."

Blast this complex woman! I knew I needed to obtain information for my next stand-off with the pessimistic gentlemen ghost. I knew the only way to do that was to have a little alone time with Christine. If this was the dirty pool I had to put up with to get that information, so be it. I didn't like it, but so be it.

I sighed, throwing up my hands in surrender. "But I don't have anything to wear!"

Once again, they closed in, one on either side me, firmly grasping my arms. And the rambling was relentless.

"You can borrow one of my dresses!"

"Or mine!"

"We're all quite petite, it shouldn't be too difficult to find _something_."

They babbled on and on, describing every dress, every corset, every shoe…each and every detail of my divine punishment. Yes, that's how I saw it; my punishment. I was now their victim being dragged to her impending doom of primping and panache. I had spent most of my life fighting this off, and now it had come to claim me. I'll bet Joseph was rolling in his grave…with laughter.

**Sometime later…**

My sanity, not to mention my dignity, was gone. Lost somewhere above, perhaps in whatever matter of bird was sitting atop of my head. I tried not to lose my control as well, while the fussing fingers of the two girls primped and pulled at every conceivable inch of me. I could see out the corner of my eye that the room was an absolute mess. Gowns, undergarments, shoes and accessories were flung everywhere and looked something like an artist's palate, every inch covered in a variety of colors. Hearing Meg's sigh of relief gave me hope that the torture was over.

"Well, what do you think?"

Christine stood back to examine, leaving me to begrudgingly face the mirror. She glanced at Meg, biting her lip.

"Do you think we might've gone a bit…overboard?"

I nearly wanted to cry. Or throw up. I could hardly pick myself apart from the room! They had me clad in the latest spring fashion (though it was still only December), with a low cut, fitted bodice in petunia pink with pink ribbons and white lace, and a matching full, pink skirt. This get-up was adorned with a jacket and feathered boa in robin's egg blue. Two ostrich feathers stood a good six inches above my head in two different shades of pink. I wore pink gloves and last but not least, pink dress shoes. I was the pink of perfection. The makeup…I don't even want to remember it.

"I'm a prisoner of pastels." I moaned.

"Oh come, it's not _that_ bad." Meg reassured, though not convincingly.

"I match the room!"

"She does look regrettably like a can-can dancer." Christine concurred.

"Alright! So I got a little carried away." Meg admitted.

"This is so hopeless. All that work to get me looking this feminine really says something, doesn't it."

"Maggie, stop that. You're really quite attractive." Christine defended. "Let's try again."

"Oh blast it, Christine, is it really worth it?"

"Well it won't be if you keep up with language like that."

I huffed in displeasure as they attacked my figure for a second round. I'm not sure how much more time had passed, but I was fairly certain the night had wasted away and it would be too late to go anywhere, and this would've all been for nothing.

"Alright, I think this is a distinct improvement."

Both Meg and Christine stepped back to survey the damage. I wasn't sure I wanted to see.

"If this is all botched up again, the deal's off, and I go dressed as I always am. Sensibly."

"Trust me this is a great improvement." Christine smiled.

Hesitantly, I turned towards the full-length mirror on the wall, and…was genuinely surprised. It was a simpler gown in jade green, with long sleeves and minimal lace. The bodice was laced with subtle gold ribbon. The cut wasn't terribly low and the white veiled lace stretched from the top of the bodice to mid-neck where it was topped off with a black choker and a brooch. I wore black ladies boots, sensible for the winter weather. My long, curly dark hair, usually stuffed up under a cap, was pulled back halfway, letting the rest flow free. The pounds of whorish makeup had disappeared, leaving only a lighter reddish tint on my lips and very faint rouge on my cheekbones. I daresay, I almost looked…pretty. Christine attempted to coach me in some rules of etiquette, most of which I logged away in the back of my mind. I had more important things to worry about.

I was slightly put off to find that the girls' idea of a night out consisted of a glass of wine and small plate of pastries at a usual table in the Café de L' Opera. Some evenings, members of the company would perform little ditties and excerpts from various operas for their fellow comrades. And while I admit, it was an enjoyable atmosphere with enjoyable company, it wasn't quite the experience I'd had in mind for our nightly exploit. Christine and Meg noticed my apparent dismay, and after assuring them how much I enjoyed the Café de L' Opera, I added that I had hoped to introduce them to another Snug* out of the Opera's safe haven.

It was nearly midnight by the time we left. Three Parisian Princess waltzed down the street, arms linked, looking for a good time. Christine tried to hail a brougham but I stopped her.

"You find some of the best places on foot 'stead of watchin' the world race by from a cab window."

"And by 'best places' I hope you don't mean some dark, foreboding hole-in-the-wall with cheap ale and even cheaper company." Christine pleaded, already preparing for the worst.

"Don't be such a sissy, Christine. It's a perfectly respectable place where we're goin'."

"Watch the slang. It makes you sound uneducated and underprivileged."

God save me, I wouldn't survive the night. After a bit of walking, I steered them through a door into a dimly-lit tavern that gave off an eerie yet warm reddish glow. The stage lads had brought me here a time or two in hopes that the lively, beguiling atmosphere would pull me from my silent reverie. It hadn't, of course, but I was still grateful for the distraction; a place to escape to whenever I needed. In other words, a dark, foreboding hole-in-the-wall had become my refuge…much to Christine and Meg's dismay. The place was called La Vie En Rose. Christine started coughing from the overpowering stench of cheap cigars.

"This is your idea of a perfectly respectable place?"

"I wonder what a hole-in-the-wall would look like." Meg chimed in, taking in her surroundings.

"Oh, come off it, just give it a try. It's something totally out of the norm!"

"It's something, alright," Meg murmured as I led them through the smoky haze to a set of stairs that led to a loft where the smoking was minimal compared to ground floor.

After ordering a round of drinks, I fired away on my mental list of questions. Simple stuff, like where she was from originally, when she came to be employed at the Opera Populaire, how long she'd been singing. And while some of it may have proven to be "useful information," I longed to dig deeper, drive at the emotions and hidden desires, the core of the talented young Swedish girl that no one else knew. But I didn't want Meg to bear witness to my nitpicking interrogation, because it wasn't an interrogation, really. I just didn't want her getting suspicious of me or worse, let her suspicions get to Christine.

Fortunately, after a few rounds, I didn't have to worry about that so much, for Meg was off dancing with the one or two men who had offered, laughing merrily, and spinning along with tune of the tavern's fiddles and pennywhistles.

"Meg seems to be enjoying herself!" I shouted over the music to where Christine was sitting, softly clapping along with the rhythm.

"As always!" she yelled back.

"This isn't really your cup o' tea is it?"

"What?!"

"I said, this isn't really your sort of thing, is it?"

Christine gave a sincere smile. "No! No, it's not! But I'm—,"

She was cut off by the deafening applause and whistles which signaled the end of the jig. We covered our ears a second, smiling, before it quieted down somewhat and Christine tried again. "But I'm glad that I came."

I finished sipping my Guiness. "Really?"

She nodded. "I don't get out of the theatre much," she took a sip of her own drink. "To tell you the truth, I don't go anywhere at all."

"Why ever not?" I picked at the French bread we'd ordered, hoping that at last, we were getting somewhere.

"Well, at first there was no reason to. Before Papa died, we lived with a widow, Madame Valerius. I still continue to stay with her from time to time, but lately…" she drifted off, staring over the loft's edge, at what I don't know.

"But lately?" I urged on. She shook her head, as if to shake away some distant thought.

"Lately, things have been—different. Strange. Enough so, that I ought to stay away from the Opera, but I just—can't."

I contemplated what to say next. "Listen, Christine. I know we aren't exactly friends…" She looked up at me.

"Oh? Then what are we?"

I was at a loss for words. I never gave it much thought; never suspected she would consider us to be that close-knit after knowing each other for so little time.

"I thought we were."

"Really? I never had many close mates, so I guess I wouldn't know what determines whether we are or not."

"Well, I'll admit perhaps we're not good friends, not close. But I'd say we're off to a fine start."

"Well, uh—thanks."

After an awkward silence, she bit her lip, looking at the table cloth. She seemed to pondering something.

"Listen, Maggie…" she whispered, loud enough to hear over the low chatter of nearby patrons. I leaned in. "Can I tell you something?" I nodded. "But you must swear to me you won't tell another soul?"

"Sure, I swear it."

"Well…" she let out a small shaky laugh. "I don't know why I'm telling you this—it's a bit funny, but—you seem like the kind of person one can easily trust.

"I get that a lot."

She gazed over the edge again and I followed her eyes, which were trained on Meg. Meg was at the bar, laughing at something her dance partner had said, flirting like a fool. Feeling assured her companion wouldn't be joining us anytime soon, Christine relaxed slightly.

"Do you remember when I first mentioned the Angel of Music?" I nodded, thinking back to that day and how nervous she had seemed.

"I can't quite explain it…but it feels like something's stirring in the Opera's atmosphere. It feels restless. My Angel has been rather strange lately as well. He's been more—protective, you could say."

Taking a steady sip of my pint I responded, "How so?"

"He's been coaching my voice for nearly three months, now. Throughout that time, he's been strict, firm, but compassionate, understanding. He became more than my teacher, he was my guardian; someone I could confide in, spill my troubles to at the end of the day. A friend—up until now."

Now, I know everyone is entitled to their belief, be it fact, myth, religion, what have you. Hell, being from an originally pagan country, we had some sort of fable or faerie-tale for ever rock and river that came our way. I was used to hearing them. But this was past old childhood delusions. It was unsettling how serious Christine had become in her faith to the story of the Angel of Music, and it rattled my nerves. Still, I continued to play along with her little daydream.

"What do you mean "up until now"?"

She sighed. "Do you remember the Comte de Chagney?"

Racking my brain, I vaguely recalled a tall well-dressed man, middle-aged, constantly at the side of prima ballerina, La Sorelli, after every performance. I nodded.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but on occasion, his younger brother attends the Opera. The Vicomte Raoul de Chagney."

"Can't say I can put a face to the name."

"Raoul and I used to play together when we were young, at Perros. Anyway, after my rather embarrassing collapse on the night of the gala, we were reunited. I awoke to him kneeling over me in my dressing room. In my daze, I asked who he was, whereupon, he claimed to be the little boy who saved my scarf from the raging sea in Perros."

I laughed. "Odd. What did you say?"

"I pretended not to know what he was talking about. I didn't mean to appear cruel, but I sensed my angel was near, and he can be quite jealous. He once told me that if I let myself be distracted by worldly things, and loved another man, he would leave me. I couldn't bear that! My angel means everything to me. He's the closest connection I have with my father, the closest thing to heaven. Without him, my life would return to the empty void it once was."

By now, Christine's fingers were clenched tightly around her glass, knuckles whitening, staring intently at the liquid contents before hesitantly meeting my eye.

"But I don't want to lose Raoul either. He was my dearest friend. Some might've even called us childhood sweethearts. I just don't know how to juggle the two."

I took a long swig of my Guiness before replying. "Alright, say I buy all this gab about the angel for a second—"

"You don't believe me." I felt a twinge of guilt and sympathy at seeing the resigned, defeated look on her face. "No," she cut me off before I could explain myself, "I can understand how mad I must sound. A musical angel sent by my dead father to give me voice lessons, controlling my social life…"

"Well, what do you expect, Christine? A supernatural being—a voice no one else sees or hears apart from you."

"For the record, I've never seen him, either."

"Well, that confession just made this so much more convincing."

"You know, I don't have to sit here and be judged by you. I can't help it whether you believe me or not."

"In all normality, you have to admit this is all a bit far-fetched!"

"Normality?" She questioned. "You, yourself, challenge normality in every way possible. Your dress, your language, your way of thinking…completely out of the norm! You don't know the meaning of the word."

She stood up, reaching for her cloak. Dammit! I was no good when it came to idle chatter. I had to keep her from leaving, otherwise she maybe never take me into her confidence again, as well as avoid me at all future opera events.

"Wait, Christine—I—I'm sorry." She didn't look at me, but paused. I sighed. "I didn't mean to sound so insensitive. Come on, this is me, Tomboy Maggie. I never do say the right thing." I smiled apologetically, and trying to suppress a small one, she rolled her eyes heavenward.

"All right." We sat in silence a few minutes, watching Meg engage in another dance.

"Does Meg know?"

Christine shook her head. "Only that I believed my father had sent me an angel as he promised. She refused to believe it. She's been fretting needlessly about my behavior for the past month. But I suppose I give her just cause. I just didn't want her to know how afraid I was—how afraid I still am."

At that moment, Meg collapsed into her seat beside us, flushed and breathless. "Having a good time?" I asked.

She nodded enthusiastically. "The best! Lord if Mama ever found out about this…"

"She won't unless you blabber about it." Christine playfully pushed her.

"And the fun's not over yet."

Christine cocked an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"You think this is the only entertainment they have to offer?"

Almost as if on cue, a roar of applause, multiple hoots and whistles erupted from the tavern. All eyes turned to the piano in the corner of the main floor, and the woman beside it, her scantily-clad form glittering in the spotlight. She began singing an old French song in a low, enticing tone, honey-gold eyes staring straight ahead. Christine put her hand over her mouth.

"Oh, no. No, we are _not _staying another minute, come on Meg."

"Would you relax?" I whispered, noticing the occupants at the table nearby were staring at us.

"How could you be so brazen as to drag Meg and I to a brothel?!"

"It's not a brothel, for God-sake, Christine, I wouldn't do that."

"Oh, then what do you call _that_?"

She gestured to the woman who had started making her way around the tables, her chocolate-brown curls gleaming in the light. She sat on one table, leaning towards a gruff man. The sleeve of her red low-cut bodice, slipping down her shoulder, red taffeta skirt hiked up to reveal her shapely legs.

"_That_ is Edel St. Claire. She's the star attraction for La Vie En Rose."

"She's a—a Jezebel!" Meg claimed (as loud as she possibly could).

"…Of the tavern, and nothing more. She's no whore!"

"Then I suppose she's a boon companion of yours?" Christine added with a note of obvious disapproval.

"No! Not necessarily. We've chatted some, yes. Trust me, there's more to her than meets the eye. She's a good egg."

I wished I could introduce them to Edel to prove my point, that she was just as much a lady, just as human as any of us. But Edel was yet another egg in the basket that knew me only as Sidney, and I wanted to keep it that way. The less that knew, the better. The act was over, and more applause, even louder than the first bout, echoed throughout the house.

Christine softly clapped as well. "I'll admit she has a rather pleasant voice."

"She does seem to possess a certain air of dignity and decorum apart from other—women in her line of work." Meg finished, lamely.

"She's not a whore!" I insisted.

It was getting later, the crowds were winding down. After enjoying the last round of drinks, our conversation became light and more relaxed. Christine told me more about her childhood and Raoul (whether I wanted to hear it or not), Meg lazily propped her head up on her hand, drifting in and out of a catnap. She excused herself, looking for a place to relieve herself from the numerous beverages of the evening.

"You swear not to repeat anything I've told you?" Christine reminded me for the umpteenth time that night, referring to her bizarre angel case.

"Yeah, Yeah. I told ya I wouldn't."

She gave a short laugh, twirling her glass on the table's polished surface. "I supposed it doesn't really matter. Perhaps it _is _all in my head," she frowned, "Perhaps I believed in it so much my imagination finally complied." She sighed. "Perhaps I've finally lost my mind; sold it to that Opera house the very day I came." She downed her drink.

"Cheers." I saluted mine.


	18. A Ghostly Encounter

It was the greatest conspiracy. The news of Christine Daae's triumph was easily overridden by rumors of her sudden disappearance. After her last performance, she had been seen on her way to her dressing room but when called upon, no one answered. The room had been empty. It was as if she had vanished into thin air! It was a curious case indeed, but no one seemed to fuss over it more than a day. That is, no one save for the Vicomte de Chagney.

I admit that I too had dropped the rumors as effortlessly as anybody else in the company. Albeit her sudden disappearance was odd, perhaps we were making a mountain out of a molehill. Perhaps, she had a family emergency or some urgent errand she had to see to as quickly as possible. It still didn't make it any less suspicious. From what Christine had told me, the woman she occasionally lived with, Madame Valerius, was the only family she had left. So, I summed it up to be a spur-of-the-moment visit to the elderly woman, and left it at that.

Oh, how I wish now that I hadn't dismissed it so lightly. The clues were there in plain sight, in the backmost deserted region of my mind. I just wasn't aware at the time there was a mystery they needed to be applied to.

It was while I was doing some work in the third cellar—no one else dared go down after what happened to Joseph (I'm not sure why I did)—that I met _him _again. I was carrying some props and, as usual, it was unbearably dark despite the few torches that lit the way down. I brushed past a piece of dark cloth close to the wall of the entrance, causing me to drop a plaster skull used in Faust. Precariously shifting the other objects in my arms, I knelt down to retrieve it, pushing back the flap of cloth which I assumed to be a costume or a curtain to a set piece or something. However, while feeling about for the skull, my fingers came in contact with something long and narrow…smooth…leathery, with something solid inside of it. I had unknowingly caressed a man's boot.

"Bloody Christ!" The realization sent my balancing act skittering across the floor, taking me with it.

"Hardly", came the deep cynical voice.

"Christ's bleedin' nails, you scared the bejeezus out of me!"

"Your language is worse than an intoxicated Russian."

I picked myself up off the floor, rubbing my bruised backside before collecting the scattered props.

"Hey, I've been to Russia my friend, and my language is the pink of perfection compared to them. Are you gonna help me or not?" I referred to the mess on the floor.

He stared at me intensely for a moment before replying. "Why should I?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Why should I help you when _you, _mademoiselle, have failed to help me."

Oh. That. I braced myself for the storm to come.

"I gather you know of her disappearance?"

"Of course I do."

"How about stories of where she grew up?"

"Naturally."

I don't know how to explain it, but something in my mind—perhaps another mounting suspicion I hadn't been aware of—clicked. Wheels started turning, neglected details and pieces began to connect. I had a vague hunch and decided to test it.

"Oh, well maybe it would interest you to know of her family—"

"—That, is no news to me."

…_He was never seen by anyone, and if he was, only for the blink of an eye._

"Then surely, you must know of Raoul."

…_He already seemed to know so much about her, which would mean spending sufficient amount of time around her._

"Yes, I know of the Vicomte!"

_I had not mentioned Raoul's formal title. Either he kept up with the gossip of high society or… _

I racked my brain for any other minor detail that might confirm my rising suspicions of who exactly this man might be. I recalled something Christine had told me that night at La Vie En Rose.

"There was a song Christine's father could play quite well, from what I'm told. It was one of her favorites and she wanted to hear it at his funeral, but never found anyone skilled enough to play it. I think it's called the Res--,"

"—Resurrection of Lazarus, I know!" The moment the words left his mouth, he stopped. The air stirred with tension and I suspected he had guessed my game. I still had one more card to play.

"That leads me to wonder, just how much do you know? I've got it, did you know that when she and the Vicomte played together as children, her father would tell them charming little fairytales? In fact, one story portrayed a little girl who may have looked quite similar to Christine. I can't recall what her name was…something like Lovely Lorelei or Little--"

"—Lotte." He blurted.

"That's right. Little Lotte…and her Angel of Music. The one she always confides in, shares her innermost thoughts with…" He knew the game was up. "With a hobby like that, it's a wonder you need me at all."

"You knew."

"I have keen womanly intuition. I do have to wonder though, what Christine will think when she discovers that her Angel and the dreaded Phantom are one and the same."

"She'll never need to know."

"You know where she is, don't you?"

He sighed heavily, bending to pick up the skull I had dropped near his feet before.

"Am I going to have to kill you too?" He sounded almost bored with the thought.

But his words sent my thoughts reeling back to the gruesome image of Joseph's cold lifeless body on a stretcher.

"You've rid the world of one Buquet. Not enough?"

He stared at the Death's head as if willing it to life with those unnatural yellow eyes of his. "It was complicated."

I snorted, feeling my emotions beginning to overcome my senses. "What's complicated about it? He saw you, it pissed you off, you killed him. The end."

"It happened far too often, you don't understand anything." He hissed. "My life, my very existence, such as it is, survives on the ignorance of others. It plays on the silence of the very few who know of me and where I dwell. Your fool-hardy brother chose to break that silence. He took pride in sharing everything there is to know about the elusive Opera Ghost! Oh, he was an arrogant, stupid, perverted, useless twit…"

It was somewhere in that lapse of time that I lost my mind. I must've lost my mind, because there wasn't a rational thought in my head when I dropped every prop in my arms and lunged for him. He easily countered my attack, ducking to one side, tripping me with his foot. I fell to my knees, but before I could react, he had me by the back of my shirt collar, yanking me up to press me against the wall.

"And you're not much brighter, are you?" He said through clenched teeth.

I struggled, my cheekbone grinding against the wall. His hands pinned my arms to the wall on either side while using his bodyweight to press into my back so it was nearly impossible to move…nearly, but not entirely. I couldn't use my legs to push off the wall, but with his body being right up against mine to restrict movement, I put my trust in the fact he wouldn't slack off for anything and let my feet fly backward—causing my body to sag a little—and wrap around his legs.

He tried to shake them off but I held tight. He pulled my arms behind me, tearing me away from the wall, but not before my cheek scraped against the rough stone.

"Your bloody soul to the devil, you have no idea what Jo and I have been through, no idea what you've done!" I screamed.

"I'm damned anyway! _You_ have no idea _why _I did what I did," he responded gruffly, letting go of my arms so that I dropped to the floor, barely catching myself with my hands, unlocking my feet.

"I put the poor wretch out of his misery."

Overcome by a fresh wave of fury, I cried out in rage and slammed my boot into his shin as hard as I could, rewarded with a bellow of pain and a strong oath from the target. He instinctively grasped his leg, buying me a few precious seconds to scamper to my feet and get away. Under normal circumstances, Maggie Buquet wouldn't back out of a fight with any man. But these weren't normal circumstances, and this most certainly wasn't any ordinary man.

They say the things we fear the most are the things that have already happened to us. In some cases I reckon that's true, but in this case, it wasn't. I'd dealt with a lot of dirty bastards in my time, but I didn't know how to handle this situation and that's what scared me. He was unlike anyone or anything I'd ever encountered. And so, of him, I was genuinely afraid.

I ran up the stairs, thinking if I could make it out of the cellars, out where there were people, witnesses, he wouldn't dare follow me. I didn't make it far, before I felt something catch my neck, jerking me backwards so that I fell unceremoniously down half the flight of stairs. I was dizzy and in pain. Bursts of colored spots danced in front of my eyes like fuzzy, out-of-proportion flowers. I couldn't draw in any oxygen. It felt like reluctantly waking from a dream…or maybe drifting back to one, which must've been my preference because then there were no colors, only solid black, and I didn't remember anymore.

**A/N: sorry it's so short, but I really wanted to get something out there in fan-land. Let me know what you think about fight scenes; if it's good, unrealistic, some suggestions to make it better…**


	19. In the hands of the enemy

**A/N: Now that I have the luxury of spring break, I'm writing as fast as I can!**

_I dreamt of Danny…_

_Saw his pudgy little cheeks…_

_Heard his mischievous if rather devilish laughter…_

_He was running along the banks of the lake near the house. It was summer. His pants rolled up to his knees. Jo and I were playing tag with him. Then he was attempting to skip rocks across the water, which he was never very good at. I watched the stone hit the water only it wasn't water anymore. It was ice. Winter had smothered Ireland. The stone skidded across the frozen lake and dropped into a hole that had recently been broken in the ice. I cautiously stepped towards it, afraid of what I would surely see. _

_The water was pitch black, I could see my reflection as clearly as if I were looking into glass. Suddenly, I fell in. Black water enclosed me in its hostile, frigid embrace. Then I woke to cold water dripping on my face._

I sputtered and twisted away from it. My vision was hazy; light and dark colliding and spinning like a kaleidoscope, a kaleidoscope in black and white.

"Oh good, you're awake," came the terse familiar voice, not sounding at all enthused. The spinning ceased and my eyes focused on the two glowing eyes belonging to that voice.

"What the hell did you do to me?" My throat was bone-dry and burning, making my voice hoarse and scratchy.

"What do you mean? You fell down the stairs." He pressed—none too gently—something wet to my bloodied cheek.

"The hell I did!" I rasped, not able to even raise my voice above a groggy whisper, "I was pulled."

He sighed in surrender. "Yes, that was my doing or rather the Punjab Lasso's.

"The pun-what?"

"Punjab lasso," he repeated mechanically, "a thin strong rope made of catgut. A quick, silent, reliable weapon."

"So, you meant to kill me, only now you're here—wherever that is—kneeling over me, dumping glacial water on my face. You are, without a doubt, the most bipolar human being I've ever known."

"You're acquainted with many, then?"

I ignored him, instead referring to my former analysis of the situation. "Why?"

He paused, as if thinking this through for the first time. "I've never killed a woman before. Though sorely tempted, it would hardly do to start with you."

"Well, I wouldn't want to mar your perfect record."

He gave me that odd look again; that look that tried to see through me, root through every feeling, every possible meaning behind my words. Everywhere I looked it was dark, except for a faint glow of bluish light emanating from an unseen source.

"Where did you take me, exactly…the black hole of Calcutta?"

"A place most people have forgotten. There's a well in these cellars. Seeing as you were unconscious, it was the only place I saw fit to bring you."

"It's close to your home, isn't it?" At his expression I briefly explained the stagehands know everything.

"Perhaps I ought to kill the lot of them, bring an end to this aggravation."

I gave a small pathetic snort, which resulted in a small pathetic coughing fit. He pressed something to my lips and not caring whether the water in it was sanitary or not, I gratefully choked it down.

"What good would that do you?"

"I could live my life in peace."

"Well, I'm not running the show by myself, so you'll just have to grin and bear it." Which reminded me… "Are you going to tell me where Christine is or not?"

His body instantly turned rigid and he averted my eyes. "Not."

"Please? You're going to drive us all mad with worry."

"It's none of your damn business!" He shouted.

Silence. "Perhaps it's best I take you back."

He took my arms and heaved me off the ground. I was a bit shaky and he had to steady me, but my pride pushed me to walk on my own, battered and bruised as I was. He was in front of me in two easy strides, leading the way. We didn't go far. I froze, shaking immensely now, upon seeing a small boat fit for two on a black unforgiving lake that stretched out before us. He noticed the palpable change in my demeanor and asked what the matter was. Finding what little voice I had, I pointed to the boat.

"Y-you took me…across the w-water…in _that?_"

"Of course. How else?"

Those god-awful images flashed before my eyes, recognizing a similar scene. A boat…fit for two. A lake…a pitch black, icy lake. My hands flew to my horror-stricken eyes, unable to wipe the vision away.

"Why did you do that?" I gasped. He eyed me strangely but I didn't notice through the blurry build-up of tears. "What have you done?" I said a bit louder.

I knew he couldn't fathom the reason for my abrupt panic attack.

"You put me, unconscious, into a rickety miniscule boat, and took me across the—," I couldn't finish and clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle some incoherent sound.

"What is wrong with you?" He began to look almost concerned if it wasn't for the wary expression in his eyes that practically shouted "should I fetch a straitjacket?"

I couldn't answer him, because the tell-tale signs of dizziness washed over my entire body again, and I vaguely remember swearing before falling into that familiar, empty, lonely darkness. The next time I awoke, there was substantially more light than there was at the well. I rested on something more comfortable than a stone floor, and when my hand flinched, my fingers brushed against a thick blanket. Strangely enough, the light came from above. I began to realize that smooth dark walls were closing in, confining me. I started to panic, believing I was trapped in another nightmare. My racket summoned the opera ghost and he immediately rushed to my side.

"What kind of bloody joke is this?" I shouted, sitting up, my voice slowly but surely on the mend.

"Quiet!" He shushed me.

"No, I will not be quiet! You dumped me in a coffin! Just what kind of—," He walked up behind me and covered my mouth.

"You will bite your tongue or lose it," he commanded. "The coffin is not meant to be a sick joke. It just so happens that's where I sleep." He removed his hand.

This took me aback, and I glanced at the rest of my surroundings. "This is where you live?"

"Yes."

The bedroom was dark, cold, stony—much like its occupant. "Trust me, it wasn't my first choice." He replied bitterly.

I'd heard the rumors of him making his home deep in the cellars, but I had never really imagined what it would look like. I guess I had pictured something more simple: A few belongings and stolen food tucked in a convenient corner somewhere. So, I was rather surprised to see an actually built structure with walls—dark walls—and a closet, and a desk, and…well, the coffin.

"How long have you lived down here?"

"Before we start poring over my alternative lifestyle, I think it only fair that you answer a few of my questions, starting with what the hell happened back at the well."

Oh, that's right. Dammit. I had to give some reasonable excuse, I couldn't tell him the truth. Unfortunately, I wasn't near quick enough.

"No need to concoct a mediocre story, the truth will be just fine." He leaned against a door, arms folded, waiting.

"I'm not that good a swimmer," I lied, climbing out of the morbid bed. He narrowed his eyes and I felt certain he didn't buy it.

"I wasn't planning to dump your immobile carcass in the lake, you know. You were perfectly safe."

"Says you," I muttered.

He remained silent a minute before calling my bluff as I knew he would.

"What's the real reason?"

I sighed in frustration. "None of your damn business, that's what it is."

I made for the door, the same one he was blocking, intent on leaving this gothic monstrosity. However, he didn't budge. I gritted my teeth, biting back an oath, sensing my temper was quick on the rise, one I would have no control over should he try to provoke it.

"Please move."

"You haven't answered my question."

"Yes, I believe I said it wasn't your goddamned business!"

He stood up straight, his imposing height causing my head to tilt back slightly. "You will lower your voice." He hissed.

"Why should I? What gives you the right to invade my personal affairs?"

"Quiet, woman!" He barked. Suddenly, another—quite unexpected—voice cut through our banter.

"Erik?" It was a woman's voice, one I instantly recognized.

"Christine is here?" I asked, though I didn't need confirmation.

His eyes betrayed him anyway, as he closed them in a sense of utter hopelessness. Or perhaps frustration. When he opened them again, he regarded me as if I were a pit viper or something equally dangerous that had intruded upon his territory.

"Wait here. If you utter a single sound…if you cough, sniffle, if you breathe too loudly…you will never leave this place again."

I believed him. As much as I didn't want to, I kept my mouth shut, and he left me there, the click of the lock served as an echo of his former warning.


	20. Reels and jigs, and whiskey swigs

It seemed like hours later (which it always does when stuck in one space with nothing to do), before he returned and found me sitting against a wall.

"Let's go."

"What about Christine?"

"What about her?"

"I'm not leaving without her."

"I'm afraid you are."

I picked up the dark undercurrent to his otherwise business-like tone, but as usual, ignored it. "I can't just stand by and pretend nothing's happened."

He took a menacing step towards me. "For your sake, you'd better."

I predicted I was setting myself up for another confrontation, but didn't care. I didn't think I could live with myself without my ever-present conscience gnawing at me if I left Christine without making sure she was alright.

"Just let me see her!"

"Stay out of my affairs."

"She's here against her will, isn't she." It wasn't a question.

"It's none of your business. This is the last warning I'm going to give you…LET'S. GO."

"No! I would rather die than abandon a friend in this drainpipe you call a house!"

"Done!" He hissed, on me as quick as lightning, my arms locked in his unrelenting grip. All struggling ceased when a slight creak from the door announced the presence of a bystander. Christine's pallid face witnessed our violent display with absolute shock.

"Maggie?"

I was first to react. "Christine, are you alright? Has he hurt y—,"

"Christine, go back to your room," the Phantom cut me off.

"Maggie, what are you doing here? How do you two know…Erik, what's going on?" Christine demanded.

"Ah, fancy that. The ghost has a name." I sneered.

"Mademoiselle Buquet was just leaving." He spat slow and deliberate, catching my gaze to make sure I understood. I caught the drift.

"No, I'm not. Not without Christine. If she is here of her own accord, surely she'd be allowed to come back with me."

"I can't." Christine spoke, almost too softly to hear.

"Very well," I felt my temper starting to rise, which sometimes caused me to slip into the habit of using my homeland's informal jargon, "I'm stayin' right here 'til ya do."

"No! It's not like that." Christine explained, catching Erik's movement. "I can't return with you, Maggie, but I'll be fine—trust me."

I didn't. I was aware of just how dangerous this man could be, what he could do, and I wondered if she knew the same.

"You heard her, Mademoiselle Buquet. She's here of her own free will and _wants _to stay. I suggest you leave."

How could I when this nagging feeling ate away at me? It didn't feel right at all. The Phantom's rigid frame, brimming with tension to where he was nearly shaking…Christine's darting gaze, anxious posture…It was a lie. We all knew it. I couldn't tolerate lying ever since the summer I turned seven. That was the summer I was declared 'saved' by our local church. Ever since that day, it was as if God installed a mental and emotional block against all things dishonest that I encountered. In short, I wasn't a very good liar, and I couldn't stand being lied to.

I swallowed, choosing my words carefully. "I'm sorry. My conscience won't allow it."

"Christine," his words were slow, misleadingly calm, "go…to your room…_now._"

She was reluctant to leave us alone but with one glance at his frightening eyes, obeyed. "Please, Erik," she murmured on her way out, "please don't hurt her." His gaze softened the slightest bit, but hardened again once she shut the door.

"You best be grateful. Had she not made such a request in your favor, I don't believe anything would've restrained me from throttling you."

"I consider myself warned." I replied stoically.

"Wise." He strode quickly over to a desk against the wall, opened a drawer and rooted around, his back to me, blocking my view.

I pushed my luck. "But it doesn't mean I'll stand for it."

His head turned, gleaming eyes narrowed. "I suspect you very much enjoy balancing on the borderline of life and death, Mademoiselle."

"No better way to live," trying to repress any hint of fear in my voice.

"Or the sure-fast way to die." To my aggravation, he began circling me like a half-starved vulture teasing its prey. "Now, are you going to come quietly, like a big girl, or will you make this difficult?"

"If you dare even _touch _me, I swear to God—," my threat went unheeded however, when a strong, bittersweet-smelling cloth came out of nowhere, covering my nose and mouth, smothering my lungs in burning fumes. My world started spinning like a merry-go-round at suicidal speed. Light dimming into black again. I was getting awfully sick of black.

When I woke again, there was a cold compress administered to my face, only it was Jacques kneeling over me, no phantom. Although my thoughts were more jumbled and my vision more fuzzy than after the first time I had fainted, I still recognized the cracked concrete walls of my room.

"Jacques…" My voice was disgustingly dry and cracked as the chalk sketches on those walls; I barely recognized it.

"Well, good 'morrow, sunshine!" I was starting to worry myself sick over you."

I put a hand over my sensitive eyes, a headache wanting to break right through them. "Jacques, not so loud…I feel…I feel like hell," I moaned.

"I'm sure. No one ever felt on top of the world after being out cold for two days."

"Two days?" I shot up—wished I hadn't—and my weak undernourished body wobbled before crashing back down on the mattress.

"Take it easy, girl. You're not going anywhere anytime soon."

I vaguely recalled the chloroform-soaked rag wielded by someone more ghost than man…a misty, hostile lake… "Why didn't you wake me up?"…a stone well… "Believe me I tried." …a coffin…Christine… "He drugged me, that miserable son of a b—,"…wait a minute. "What did you call me?" My mind felt so damn heavy like the brain itself weighed as much as a small baby.

Jacques knitted his eyebrows in confusion. "I didn't call you anything."

"Yes, you did. Go back, what did you say?"

"Believe me, I tried?"

"Before that."

"Uhh…take it easy?"

_Girl. _"Girl!" It clicked, even through the mind's fog it all crash-landed into place. Jacques didn't know. Jacques _shouldn't _have known. My hands flew to my head; the cap was gone, some of the pins holding up my thick curly hair had fallen out, leaving long wisps of it clinging to my neck and shoulders. Next, my eyes traveled downwards, relieved to find all my clothes still intact.

"How long have you known?"

"Not long at all. I found you the night before last, slumped against the guard rail of the catwalk. It sure took me a good minute to recognize you. After getting over the initial shock, I picked you up and hauled down here. There was nobody else around. You were lucky I was late getting out of the theatre that night. From where I was below, I almost didn't see you."

I rested my hands on my stomach, flexing my thumbs in distraction. "Did—does anyone else--?"

"—your secret's safe with me."

I smiled a little. "So…what do you think?"

"Well, I still think you're an odd duck like I did from the start," he grinned. "I must say I'm not quite as surprised as I ought to be, I guess. I think you make a much more agreeable woman than you do a boy."

I turned my head to look at him. He was serious, even in his attempt to show humor. I don't know what kind of reaction I had expected, but it sure wasn't that. I had expected him to pummel me with questions or make a scene, at least. But he was unusually calm, composed.

"Well," he sighed, "better go let the boys know how you're getting along. They sure had their suspenders in a twist, worrying about you when you didn't return from the cellars. I told them you were "recuperating" but didn't give any details."

"Thank you, Jacques. You're a good friend."

"I am curious though. Just who was it that did _that_ to you?" He pointed to the scrape on my cheek bone.

Should I tell him? No. One life-threatening secret for the day was enough. "Just a man…some stranger from La Vie En Rose…never saw him before."

He studied me silently, debating whether to believe me or not. Finally he blinked and shook his head to clear his thoughts.

"You ought to be more careful in those kinds of places, Sidney…by the way, while we're on the subject of honesty, is that really your name?"

I shook my head. "It's Maggie. Don't let it slip now, and don't fuss over me, I can take care of myself, thank you."

"Yes, I can see that," he smirked sarcastically, glancing over my less-than-satisfactory state of health.

Ignoring that, I asked if Joseph had ever mentioned me. He leaned back on the door; arms crossed, and sighed, searching his memory.

"Jo was a talker, no doubt about it, but never about himself. He kept information on his own life private and we never pressed him."

"Humph. Probably too ashamed is why…" I muttered.

"Now why would he have felt ashamed?"

"Oh. Never mind."

"Even though he never spoke much about having a family, I don't think he was ashamed of you."

It hadn't been exactly what I was referring to, though I wouldn't be surprised if I were partially the reason Joseph never mentioned us. I had undoubtedly been a thorn in his side the past several years.

"Well," Jacques pulled me out of my reverie, "get some rest. I'll be back later with some dinner."

I stared at the ceiling after he left, futilely waiting for sleep that would not come. How could I sleep, knowing I'd left Christine down there…alone…with _him_? So, I stared at one of Joseph's sketches, though how he drew it on the ceiling so well was a mystery to me. Russia: St. Basil's Cathedral. Apart from the wretched weather, it was one of the most incredible places I'd ever seen. Apparently Jo felt the same way, judging from the detail to the drawing. Unfortunately, we had arrived in Russia at a bad time.

_The country was suffering__. The lower-class was starving and worked long days while being paid shite. The Jewish communities were treated harshly and sometimes persecuted. The Tsar's empire left no room for any real political party system. Therefore, he and his armed forces intimidated and tormented the people, forcing any sign of reformers to hide underground. There was always some secret organization or other, plotting to overthrow the government. Guess who had decided to join them. I never pictured Joseph as an activist, at least not for any country but his own. But there he was, speaking their language, dressed like them. _

_Unfortunately, the government had no time or patience for radicals. After many years of failed negotiations, Russia declared war on Turkey, and so it was in the birth of the Russo-Turkish War when groups like Joseph and his men were caught and given the choice of prison or serve in the Russian army. Acting on instinct for self-preservation, Joseph chose to fight. In the long run however, Russia's army was just no match against the mightier numbers of the Turks. Many died. Joseph nearly would've._

_When I first discovered him, he was undoubtedly shocked I'd managed to track him this far. But then he shouted, threatened, implored me to leave and go back home. I refused, but he shut me out. The next day when I came back to try again, he and his group had moved on. I stayed anyway. I was in the city's crowd when I saw them haul my brother away, and I followed them discreetly as they marched to fight the Turks. It was when Jo was caught in a crossfire wounded and separated from his fellow men that I made myself known. This time he didn't complain. We hid out in an old church where I dressed his arm. It wasn't terribly serious; the bullet hadn't gone in very deep so with borrowed tweezers, wine, and some hearty swearing on Joseph's part, I dug it out. The rest of him was more or less scraped and bruised. We fell asleep there. The next morning I woke to find him gone. _

I turned on my side to face the wall, tracing the chalky image there with my finger. Galway...home. For as long as he'd been away, he hadn't forgotten it like I suspected he had. It was a comforting thought. I saw the small hill our house rested on, the lake at the bottom of that hill. Mum's garden…even the patch in front of the house where Kessy once tried growing ox-eye daisies. The rough drawing also showed the path down to the bridge where we shared so many lunches and secret plans and ambitions for the future; ambitions we could never share with our pig-headed traditionalist friends and family.

An old song jumped into my head. It was a popular jig throughout the district called St. Anne's Reel.

_**He was stranded in a tiny town on fair Prince Edward Isle**_

_**Waiting for a ship to come and find him…**_

I closed my eyes, imprinting the image of home behind my eyelids, which was soon clouded over by the lilting tune that produced another familiar image: The _Devil's Dowry,_ a favorite pub of mine and Joseph's, and occasionally Da…*

The old out-of-tune player piano in the far corner next to where the musicians were performing. Through the obstacle of cigar smoke and homey smell of pipe tobacco and a fresh shot of whiskey, I could see him up on the performer platform, bow flying over the strings of the cherry wood fiddle; the initials J.B. etched elegantly along the ribs.

_**He said, "I've heard that tune before somewhere but I can't remember when,**_

_**Was it on some other friendly shore, did I hear it on the wind?**_

I could see the regulars lounging in their booths; the bartender's rag constantly polishing whatever was within reach; my da's face when I joined in the frivolity by dancing on table tops.

_**Was it written on the sky above, I think I heard it from someone I love**_

_**But I never heard a sound so sweet since then…**_

Our da was a great man. While Mum constantly harassed me about propriety and my filthy habits, Da was more laid back and left me alone about such things unless Mum was about to expire from overwrought nerves, which was more often than not, trying to keep up with four reckless children.

"_Maggie, get down from that table, you goose. Are you trying to send your poor mother to her grave?" _

"_Awe, she'll never know, she never comes down here." I sat down next to my papa. _

"_But people do talk," he reminded me._

"_And I should care?"_

_**There's magic in the fiddler's arms and there's magic in this town**_

_**There's magic in the dancer's feet and the way they put them down…**_

"_Maybe so. You're not such a little girl anymore, Magpie."_

_My face fell. "Don't you start, too."_

_His hand curled around his stein. "I'm not startin' anything. Just sayin'…you can't lead this sort of life forever."_

_**People smiling everywhere, boots and ribbons, locks of hair…**_

"_What else would you have me do, don a frilly apron and chase after 10 or 11 o' those little maggots before I reach 18? Track down an unconscious husband in a piss-pot like this?"_

"_Of course not, Mags. I'm not hell-bent on marryin' you off, like your mother is. I'm just tryin' to tell ya not to get stuck here. Sometimes you go thousands of miles just to learn one thing you couldn't learn at home. You're a beautiful young woman, Maggie, and there's nothin' wrong with showin' that sometimes. It doesn't make you any less smart."_

_**The sailor's gone, the room is bare, the old piano's setting there**_

_**Someone's hat's left hanging on the rack**_

_**The empty chair, the wooden floor that feels the touch of shoes no more**_

_**Awaitin' for the dancers to come back…**_

"_I wish the rest of the world saw things that way."_

"_You were just born in the wrong time, Maggie," he chuckled. "Come back in fifty years." Da never failed to cheer me up._

"_What's going on in fifty years?" Joseph plopped down at our table, panting and stealing a swig of Da's brew. _

"_Da says I've been born in the wrong time."_

"_Ah, well no arguin' there."_

"_Shove off." _

"_I mean it! You're startin' a trend. For all we know, you may not even have to wait fifty years to see it catch on. I'm sure every liberal-minded woman in the world can't wait to look like you." _

_He nodded at my apparel. I looked down at my filthy bare feet through the stringy tendrils of hair that escaped their bun, clinging to my face, sweaty from dancing. I was wearing a dress all right; my favorite one and Mum's least favorite. But the way I saw it, a dress is a dress. However, I wore Jo's hand-me-down slacks underneath, rolled up above my knees. I playfully shoved Jo for teasing me and our laughter died away. The scene changed to a grey and dismal day. _

_Rain threatened to break upon the village any second. We were all once again gathered at the Devil's Dowry, but under different circumstances. There were no wild jigs, no laughter, no playful banter…no joy. Outside, I leaned against the building, watching the milky white sky. Someone inside was drawing out the last few measures to "Danny Boy". I didn't look up to see who came out the door and shuffled up beside me, lighting a cigarette. I knew it was Joseph. _

"_I hate that song."_

"_You used to love it."_

"_Used to. Now, I hate it." Silence._

"_Wish you'd stop smokin' those things, especially on a day like today."_

_Jo smirked. "Now, why on earth would I want to do that? Maybe I'd rather leave this fine earth rotting from the inside-out."_

"_Now, that's bitterness talkin', not the tobacco. It would make __**him**__ happy to see those things go." _

_He threw down his cigarette, smothering it with his boot. "Take a good look, Maggie. Nothin's going to make him happy now."_

_I glanced over at the church, fully aware __**his**__ body was still in there, waiting; waiting for us, for someone to take him home. "What are you going to do now?"_

_He stared down the street. "I don't know." _

_It was the first time I'd ever seen him look so—lost. His eyes, frozen, as he searched every nook and cranny of his mind for something…something to say, somewhere to go, but too tired and worn out to do so. _

"_I'm going back in." I waited a moment before peering through the window to watch him hug Da. Mum's closest friend, Mrs. Riley, sat with her, providing clean handkerchiefs. Mum wore her best black dress—her only black dress. I wore one too, for sake of argument, which neither of us had energy for that day. _

_Then Joseph stepped up to the performer's platform, fiddle in tow. He closed his eyes, shutting out the others that watched silently. The first sweet sounds of our favorite tune, "Give Me Your Hand", crept through the stale air of the pub. It was the tune Joseph and I used to sing together; the first one I played in front of an audience on the ebony pennywhistle Da got for my birthday. _

_I looked back at the church, which seemed to stretch far away before zooming in, halting right as my face met the door, which was open a crack. Behind me, I could hear the music change to St. Anne's Reel and wondered why. I didn't want to go into the dark church alone, but didn't want to go back to the pub either. It sounded almost joyful and this was certainly no time to be joyful. Danny died today. _

_I was so confused and didn't understand why. Coming to a decision, I pushed the door open the rest of the way. It sliced through dark water that rose from the floor at least a foot high. Dead ahead, Danny's coffin sat up on the altar. All I could think was that I had to get to it before the water did, before it was ruined. I waded shin-deep down the aisle, nudging floating hymnals out of my way. About halfway to the altar, I noticed the source of the water was coming from inside the coffin, leaking through the cracks. The music swelled, closing in on me, changing key to match the sinister water growing ever higher. The echo of a familiar little boy's voice accompanied it._

…_**A little boy says, I'll take your hat**_

_**Leap, the heart inside him went, and off across the floor he sent**_

_**His clumsy body, graceful as a child…**_

_I wildly looked about but saw no one. "Danny?" I called out. No answer. I took a hesitant step and the singing continued. _

…_**The empty chair, the wooden floor that feels the touch of shoes no more…**_

"_Danny," I called again, "is that you?" Again I was met with silence. "It sounds like you, but it couldn't be." I whispered to myself. I was standing in front of the coffin now. The violin stopped. The only sound was rushing water. I had to get the lid open, see if Danny was there, yet I was afraid to touch it. A gut-feeling told me to let it be. But I had to make sure Danny was okay, that the flood didn't spread; I had to make sure everyone else was okay. I just had to make sure…_

_So, I threw open the lid and stood back as black water gushed out, overflowing the casket. My hand flew over my mouth, stifling a sob. The fresh lily-white corpse of a little boy lay there, Sunday suit soaked through, bluish circles under the eyes that stared in open horror into the chapel ceiling. Bloodless lips opened in a silent scream that would echo forever in my ears. And I heard the singing again, this time coming from the deep cavity of that mouth. _

…_**A walk along the street in the wintry weather**_

_**A yellow light, an open door, and a "Welcome friend, there's room for more…"**_

_And then his head lolled to the side, directing those lifeless eyes into mine. Only now they were Joseph's, noose still around his neck. _

…_**And then they're standing there inside together.**_

_Strong hands grabbed me, dragging me into the coffin. I screamed and the lid slammed shut. _

Next thing I knew, I was on the floor of my room, thrashing at the blankets covering my head. I lit a candle as quickly as possible, chasing away the dark and anything that went with it. A nightmare. Another goddamned nightmare. Suddenly, that room—its memories, its drawings—became too confining and I felt claustrophobic. I stepped into a pair of slippers Christine had given me, since she had a newer pair, pulled a blanket around my shoulders and fled that room and all the horrors it brought me.

I didn't run very far before I finally collapsed on the staircase in the first cellar. As much as I disliked being in those dark cellars alone, the House would undoubtedly be dark and lonelier still. Darkness and emptiness. It seemed nigh impossible to outrun it. Everywhere I go it follows close at my heels. There was still a torch lit along the staircase, which was comforting. I let the blanket slip down my shoulder some, exposing the silvery white nightgown Meg had lent me that night we'd all come staggering back, exhausted and slightly intoxicated from La Vie En Rose. It was a summer gown so it was rather chilly albeit more practical than sleeping in one of Joseph's old shirts.

I sat on those steps, leaning my head against one of the balusters, thinking about the dream and the events of the day that contributed to it. And that bloody song going round and round in my head like a music box left open. The happy memory of the song and those that once sang it was now a bitter and twisted one. My tired eyes gazed absently down the stairs, a tear escaping from one of them. I didn't care. There was no one to see me cry, no one to hear me softly sing the last verse of St. Anne's Reel.

"_And the fiddle's in the closet of some daughter of the town_

_The strings are broke, the bow is gone and the cover's buttoned down._

_But sometimes on December nights, when the air is cold and the wind is right,_

_There's a melody that passes through the town." _

But someone did.

**Author's note: super long chapter for super long absence. ******

***Da: so far as I know, it's the Irish equivalent of saying Dad. **

**I'm planning to have some more Maggie/Erik interaction in the next chapter. **

**This is more or less a better glimpse into Maggie's background. **


	21. Missing Christine

"Charming, but I hope you never intend to audition for the chorus."

It took me a moment to spot him and when I did I hastily wiped my eyes, embarrassed at being caught off guard by him—again.

"Sod off!"

"Really now, let's be civil about this." As if to prove his point, he stepped out of the shadows. "I trust you're doing well?"

"No thanks to you," I sneered.

"You disobeyed," he said casually. "Just another hapless victim of the Ghost's infamous wrath, just as all the stories say…or don't you believe in ghost stories?"

"You're no more a ghost than I am."

He tilted his head. "You give your opinion so confidently."

Plucking up any remaining courage left in me that night—which wasn't much—I marched down the steps and right up to him. Taken slightly aback by this brash action, he flinched as if to step back but held his ground.

Looking him square in the eye I said, "You don't know what it truly means to be a ghost; what they really are."

"_What other kind of ghost is there?"_

"…_Ghosts of the mind."_

"Suddenly you're an expert?"

"Yeah. You could say that. What do you want?"

"Let's just say I have further use of you after all. From now on, you are to stay out of Christine Daae's affairs—,"

"Hmph, shouldn't be too hard since I haven't seen much of her these days."

He glared. "—_And _will deliver these in my stead." Upon saying this, a small ivory envelope was produced from that black shroud.

"A letter?" _Dear Managers_ was scrawled across the front in scarlett ink.

"How will they know who it's from?" With a flourish of his bony hand he flipped the envelope to reveal a wax seal with a rather menacing skull embedded in it.

"Ah, I see."

"You are to deliver this discreetly. No one must see you or you could find yourself in a great deal of trouble, and not just from me."

Hesitantly, I raised my hand to grasp the envelope, anticipating some foul trick. When he did nothing, I snatched it out of his hand.

"Why, after all that just happened, why should I do this for you? I owe you nothing."

"The same terms apply now as they did when you agreed to tail Mademoiselle Daae. In return for services you get to keep your job and your life."

I smirked at his "friendly" reminder. "I must say, the working conditions are less than satisfactory." I couldn't make out the questionable expression beneath that stoic mask. "There's no return address."

"That, you need not worry about. That's someone else's duty." He turned and walked away without so much as a tip of his head in my direction.

"Wait! What about Christine? She's coming back…" I let the question hang there and when he didn't reply I asked something more personal. "Are you in love with her?"

I couldn't see him anymore, he had disappeared as he was apt to do, but I sensed that he was still close by.

"You are aren't you? You know if you really loved her, you really loved her, you'd let her go."

Still silence. I felt like I was talking to a wall, for all I know I could've been. "I know it doesn't sound like the most reasonable logic…" I sighed, finally giving up on this one-sided conversation and decided to try to get some sleep.

I was barely down the stairs when I heard the humming. It was the last verse of St. Anne's Reel. I know he was somewhere about, mocking me but I was too tired to care. "Smart ass."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Firmin, Firmin! Have you seen this?"

Monsieur Moncharmin stormed into the auditorium waving an all-too-familiar envelope with a broken wax seal. Monsieur Firmin looked up from his conversation with the chorus master, Gabriel.

"The Ghost strikes again," whispered Blackcap in a mock-eerie voice. I pretended to ignore him and go back to painting a set for the Ballet _Swan Lake._

Madame Carlotta showed no solid promise of returning after feeling snubbed and insulted, and without Christine—well, there really was no opera. So, in the bleak view of things, the managers decided it would be best to put on a Ballet. It was too bad Meg didn't get the role of Odette. Personally, I thought she was just as good as Prima Ballerina, La Sorelli. At least she landed the role of Odile.

It was hard to concentrate with all the other stagehands distracted by the managers' odd behavior over a note, so I took a break. While roaming the halls, I ran into Meg's mother, Madame Giry.

"Sidney Buquet?" I nodded. "Come with me."

Somewhat taken aback by her brusque manner, I hurried to catch up with her brisk strides, following her up the grand staircase until we reached the end of the hall where she unlocked a door and held it open for me. It was box five.

"Well, go on in. Nothing's going to jump out and eat you." Once inside, she shut the door and glanced about nervously as if expecting something dire.

"Madame, what is going on? You look as though the Hun army was going to crash through the walls any second."

"We must be brief in case _he_ is listening." Needless to say, I was a little confused. She couldn't be referring to the person I thought she was. It was as if she read my mind.

"Yes, I know the Ghost. I have served him for some time now, fetching odds and ends, delivering notes…" she took me firmly by the arm and pulled me down into the seat opposite her.

"The managers are starting to get suspicious of my activities. This could pose a threat to my job. That _must_ be why he chose you." She added the last bit almost as an afterthought, trying to convince herself it was the only logical reason I'd come to be employed under the Opera Ghost.

"So you're the one he meant."

She was genuinely surprised. "He's mentioned me?"

"Not specifically, no. Just that I, well, wasn't his only minion."

Madame Giry raised her chin high. "I do not think of myself as such, Monsieur Buquet, nor does _he. _Aside from fear, I have the utmost respect for him and the decisions he makes for this Theatre."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Have you _met_ him?"

"Have _you?_"

"Matter of fact, I have." She narrowed her eyes.

"Face to face?"

"One could say that."

"And tell me, Sidney, just what does he look like?"

The mask floated into mind along with the two golden orbs that burned through it. Although Joseph had gone into much exaggerated detail of the Ghost's appearance—none of which proved accurate, save for the eyes—I discovered we agreed on one thing: he had a death's head. I suppose it could be interpreted in two ways—the head of a skeleton or of that legendary figure all mortal men come to fear when they feel life drawing to a close—Death, himself. I'm sure Jo had meant the face of a rotting corpse, but I figured something different. If I could picture Death, I would see the resemblance between him and the Ghost—dark, menacing, life-threatening, shrouded in black…with eyes that scorched the soul. Yes, I could imagine that Death too, would be faceless.

"Like Death, Madame," I finally answered. "Like Death, himself."

She sighed. "You're no different from your brother, are you?" Knowing full well what she meant I smiled anyway.

"No, Madame. No I'm not."

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"You should see the poor Viscount! I've never seen a man so distraught."

Meg caught up with me after rehearsals and we went for coffee at the Café de L'Opera, where she proceeded to tell me all the latest gossip relating to the company; the latest pertaining to the Vicomte de Chagney. I recalled when Christine had mentioned him to me that night at La Vie En Rose.

"You know they've been secretly seeing each other," Meg had said.

According to her, the Vicomte had seemingly adopted the behavior of a madman after the unexplained disappearance of the Swedish opera singer. He came by the Opera nearly every day, hoping for some word of her.

"You've never seen such a lovesick man!" Meg exclaimed.

"Poor devil. Christine's lucky to have someone who cares for her so."

Meg smiled deviously. "Are you jealous, then?"

I nearly spat out my coffee, laughing in disbelief. "What—no! Don't be such a goose, Meg."

"You should watch your tone," she reminded me, "you're starting to sound like a girl."

I bit my lip and out of the corners of my eyes noticed our table had attracted a little attention. Meg grew suddenly quiet and began running her delicate finger around the rim of her coffee cup.

"It's not like her—to just leave like that with no word—she wouldn't dream of being the cause of alarm. It's just not like her. Sometimes I wonder if…something's happened to her."

How I wished to tell Meg, that Christine was with the enigma she knew as _Opera Ghost_. So what if he taught Christine, so what if he had a name? It wouldn't make any difference to Meg. She wouldn't see him as anything but a kidnapper and a murderer—the way I thought of him when we first met.

"Wherever she is, Meg, I'm sure she's okay." Meg gave a half-hearted smile, staring intently into her cup.

"I wish I could believe that as easily as you do."


	22. A Midwinter night's nightmare

**A/N: It's been awhile, I know. To make up for it is a nice long chapter and hopefully an enjoyable one. **

A week went by. In that time the notes continued, as did the nightmares. The Phantom (It felt strange realizing he actually had a name, now) would meet with me at the most unconventional times to deliver his latest set of instructions. I did notice after the first few days that his demeanor was somewhat different. He didn't go out of his way to insult and deride me. Then there was one day he didn't show up at all. I was curious and I admit, almost concerned as to this sudden change, however minor it may be.

It was while sitting up late one night on those same stairs, which was the most popular meeting location that I decided to search him out. He had not shown up again. I readjusted my cap over my piled up hair, not yet having changed out of my clothes for the night. Taking a lantern, I descended cautiously, one flight of stairs after another.

It was proving to be a fruitless endeavor searching for black amongst black. I figured calling out might help but what would I call him by? I still didn't feel right about calling him by name. It was like some deep forbidden secret that was never meant to be said aloud.

"Monsieur Phantom?" My voice was shaky. "Hello?"

Silence. Only the sound of dripping water. I prayed he wouldn't just pop out from some corner and send me into cardiac arrest.

"Come on, get a hold of yourself, you've been through tougher obstacles than the dark," I chastised myself. It had occurred to me to look for the old well he had brought me to a night not long ago. Trouble was, I wasn't sure how to find it, save for the fact it was somewhere between the fourth and fifth cellar…I think, not far from the underground lake. The thought of it caused me to shudder and once again I reminded myself to get a grip.

As it turns out, I couldn't find the well. But I did find _him._ I could make out a solitary figure by the eerie unexplainable glow of the lake, sitting at the water's edge next to a gondola. The fedora he sometimes wore was removed and I got a good look at his dark well-groomed but thinning hair. Taking a deep breath I crept up as quietly as I could, fascinated by him. But, in a moment of badly timed clumsiness, my shoe crunched down on small gravelly bits of rock and of course when one is trying to be stealthy, nothing could sound louder in that echoing cavern.

He whirled around and I froze. His eyes narrowed. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I…um…you didn't come." Was all I could think of to say.

"I had no reason to," he replied coldly. "That doesn't give you the right to just wander wherever you want."

"Courteous as always," I replied sarcastically. He turned his focus back on the lake.

"You shouldn't be here, go back."

"What's your problem?"

"What do you mean?"

"You seem awfully distracted."

"None of your concern."

"Is anything you do ever?"

Aggravated, he stood and sighed in annoyance. "Look, this is my domain and under normal circumstances, _no one_ is allowed to come this far."

I wasn't backing down. I was catching on to his tactics of intimidation. "Think of it as employee access only."

"I told you, I have nothing for you now. Is your life seriously so dull you would risk it simply to seek an audience with me?" He snapped.

Yes. I realized just how dull and bleak my life looked right now, but I'd be damned if I admitted it.

"Don't be ridiculous. You've missed a couple of our _rendezvous_, I was merely—"

"What, _concerned?_"

"—Curious."

He sighed again, as if hoping I would've said the former. "Well, excuse me if I don't feel up to satisfying your curiosity. Now, go."

I wanted to ask about Christine, but he cut me off before I could start. "Get out, Buquet, I don't want you here!" He kicked at the loose rock, scattering it, narrowly missing me before turning away.

I noticed then that his breathing was uneven and his shoulders sagged. I should've just left him alone, but found I couldn't. Call it concern, call it pity, call it whatever you want, but I suppose I was moved by this sudden and uncharacteristic display of defeat. Softly, I approached him again and trying to lighten the mood said, "temper tantrums don't become you." He ignored my comment.

"She's seen my face." He said at last.

"Uh-huh…and that's a bad thing?" His eyes swiveled slowly to glare at me. And then, unexpectedly, he laughed.

"A bad thing? I'm dismayed, Buquet. Have you not been paying attention to the stories?"

"Oh, the stories, the stories; they are the result of the inner child's wilting imagination, feeding on the rapt attention of those with an ever-growing one."

He smirked. "Tell me, why do you think your brother died?"

My blood boiled. I could take the usual put-downs he shot my way, but that was below the belt and uncalled for.

"How _dare _you. How could you be so cruel as to bring that up?"

"He only had himself to blame. He spread rumors, revealed confidential matters—,"

"My brother may have been a moron but that hardly deserves death!"

"He was a threat."

"He was never a threat 'til you made him one!"

"Wrong!" He towered over me, advancing as I backed up, but our eyes remained locked.

"Because of him, countless fools have wandered down here, hoping for a glimpse of the infamous Opera Ghost! And I've dealt with them all."

My back abruptly hit wall and I realized he had me cornered. Still, I didn't break eye contact, watching his every expression, every move, in case he attacked. But he wasn't angry at me specifically, just venting. From witnessing his numerous mood swings however, it would be wise not to let my guard down even for a brief moment. I had to remind myself that even the briefest moment of recklessness could very well be my last.

"What do you mean by that?"

"You know what I mean. They were a threat to my way of life, obstacles. I simply had them removed."

Knowing what he implied, I shook my head in disbelief. "Do you ever realize how…_childish_ you really are?" I spat, which only fueled his anger.

"Oh ho! Me, childish—,"

"—Yes, you! When you don't get your way you throw the tantrum of a five-year-old. Everything has to be _yours_, everything has to run according to _your_ plan."

"And why not?" He shouted, that very childish rage overtaking his senses. "I oversee everything, I know how things ought to be run. Without me, this place would've been in utter chaos years ago. It would never survive!"

"So, apply for management."

At that he laughed, and it was an empty hollow sound. He reached out suddenly and grasped my arms, pressing me tight against the wall.

"You simple girl, what have we been bantering over the past ten minutes? You think I live down here to save on rent? You think I wear this dismal scrap for my health?" He gestured to the mask.

"And as I've said, it simply can't be as terrible as you're making it out to be. Times are changing, people can be more accepting, more understanding if you'd quit killing them first! You have to give it a chance."

And then he just…snapped. I'll never forget it. So many emotions passed through his eyes in that moment, I lost track. Traces of resentment, of sadness, wonder, regret…

"Alright, _here's _your chance!" He ripped his mask away before I could blink, breathing heavily and staring through me, waiting.

The typhoon of his fury had passed and now he just looked so broken. I can say that I didn't scream or run. But I can't say I was unresponsive. I won't lie. It was terrible, truly terrible. Discoloration, multicolored scars, things that should've been there, missing. Other things stood out far more than what was considered normal. I won't go into further detail, I don't think he'd want that. I took a sharp intake of breath and my eyes must've been wider than fishbowls. I uttered an "Oh my God," before I could stop myself, my hands flying to my mouth before anything else could leak out.

"Well, there you've proved it. You can't even practice what you preach."

His hands dropped from my arms and he turned away, even more broken than before if that was possible. Neither of us said anything. What was there to say? So many words raced through my mind in a jumbled mess, none of which could be formed into an appropriate—much less coherent—response.

"I'm sorry."

"Of course you are." His voice held all the bitterness of a shot glass of lemon-pepper vodka.

I sighed, picking up the mask he dropped and stood behind him, holding it out for him to see without invading his moment of solitude. "No, I really, really am."

His head tilted slightly down at the mask in my outstretched hand and he slowly took it. "Now, you see why I can't do what other men do, have the things other men have. Therefore my social methods are somewhat rusty."

I nodded, coming to sit down at the lake's edge next to him. He sat as well. "You know something my mum always reminded us children was, "there's always, _always _someone far worse off than you." I mimicked her voice perfectly. I thought I heard Erik snort.

"I can't imagine. I daresay I'm the end of the line."

"Oh, I don't know. Why not look at all you _do_ have instead of what you don't?"

I watched him swallow that food for thought even though he seemed skeptical. "It's no wonder you're such a depression case all the time." I muttered.

"What?"

"But I suppose if you've got nothin' to die for you've got nothin' to live for, right?"

I thought I saw him smile, just a little bit. It was hard to tell—it was such a foreign feature to his face, as if he'd forgotten how to smile at all.

"I used to think that, every day of my life. Now…now, I've got something I'd gladly live and die for."

It wasn't hard to guess. "Her?" He nodded.

"She fills my life—the dark void it is—with a light I never knew existed. _What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and Juliet is the sun._"

"So, what happened?"

He sighed. "I should've known better—that women are born with an inevitable curiosity to anything that crosses their path. You've displayed several times yourself, don't deny it. It's no one's fault, just a woman's nature. It started out quite innocent, really. She was a little distraught from the evening's events—me, bringing her down here, confessing I was no more than a man, a man who loves her, heart and soul.

I thought I could calm her a bit by playing music, take her mind off things. Obviously, there was only one thing on her mind at that moment. I was so engrossed in the music…I heard her come up behind me but thought nothing of it, enjoying the nearness of her until…"

There was no need to finish, I could guess the outcome.

"I was so…stunned. A hundred emotions flooded me all at once and I fought between feeling abhorred, crushed, angry, dejected…and afraid; afraid that I had lost her forever and would never see her again. It was my temper that won. I don't want to even think of it, what I put her through. I know I terrified her beyond reason. There's no hope she'll ever come to love me now…now that she's seen everything that I am, a monster that only the worst nightmares could derive."

Something changed in me that night, I can't be sure what. No, it wasn't love. Far from it. Pity? Maybe. Compassion, empathy, most likely. I was beginning to understand him, figure out the riddle of his being and I found we weren't so very different from each other in more ways than one.

"I don't believe you are."

He looked at me incredulously as if I'd fallen down and smacked my head on pavement. "_I killed your brother._"

"And that's something I'll never easily forget or forgive. But I believe there could be more to you than meets the eye."

I've always been a sensitive soul, not by choice of course. I often kicked myself mentally. This man was a murderer! A man who killed for sport, a kidnapper, an enemy! He killed my brother for Christ sake! But I couldn't help but hurt a little just looking at him like an abused animal. A being so revered, so mysterious and powerful now so shattered, so mortal, so alone. It would be like watching a proud country fall and its beloved king right along with it.

"I must go." He stood, donning his fedora. "I won't be requiring your services tonight."

"Where are you going?"

"I still have a guest to tend to."

"That brings me to one more thing." His eyes narrowed, glittering dangerously at me, already dreading my question just as my queasy stomach dreaded his answer.

"You're eventually going to bring Christine back, right?"

Gone, was the sullen man I had spoken to only a minute ago, replaced by a dark menacing adversary, a ghost with ember eyes and a foul temper.

"She's not going anywhere."

"Oh God, when is it ever going to get through your head--,"

"She saw my face! Any woman that sees my face is mine forever. They can never leave and I won't let her go for anything." He hissed.

"What about me? I saw your face, I'm a woman. I know that's easy to forget sometimes but—,"

"What are you saying?"

"Take me instead?"

For a second it looked as though he was actually considering it. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Please, Christine's got so much life laid out ahead of her, so much she has yet to do. I…well…I really don't anymore."

"I don't want you." He sneered before turning on his heel, camouflaging himself with the shadows again.

"Join the ranks." I whispered solemnly.


	23. Compromise and Being Compromised

Weary from the night's events, I trudged up the stairs, looking forward to making a face-plant onto my bed. I hadn't even made it out of the fourth cellar when I heard, "Buquet, let's talk." I turned around to see Erik right behind me. Sometimes I hated how sneaky he could be.

"I've been contemplating what you said—,"

"There's a first."

He glared at the interruption. "—and there might be some truth in what you say. I've come to the conclusion that if you were to stay in my home it might help to dissipate the tension—create a _distraction_ for Christine. I believe things might run a bit smoother if she had a companion she can trust. Perhaps, in time she'll learn to forget…"

_His face. How much she hated him. _He didn't have to say what we both knew. I realized how difficult it must be for him to say these things, to open up his home…to admit I was right.

"If I consent to do this, some conditions will have to be set first."

Without breaking eye contact he pondered all the possible downsides but eventually gave in. "Name it."

"First of all, what am I to do about work? I can't just up and go without a trace, and they'll certainly know I'm missing."

"I'll take care of it. You won't have to be gone very long. They can spare you for a few days."

"Secondly, if I choose to take you up on your offer, you will let Christine go."

Bracing myself, I was certain he'd change his mind about the whole thing. He visibly tensed but just as quickly, he relaxed. "Done. After--,"

"One week."

"—One week. Christine will return with you."

"Then it's a bargain." I held out my hand.

He looked at it as though it would bite him but then, reluctantly, took it in his own and we shook to seal the deal. He immediately dropped his hand as if it burned to touch another human's flesh.

"I'm glad you're doing this. I know it will make a world of difference--,"

"This is merely for Christine's sake, nothing more."

He waited down by the lake while I gathered a few items from my room, which wasn't much. My little knife and the hilt that held it, the clothes I arrived in, and a small red leather satchel. It was when I met him down by the gondola that I was faced with another condition: Crossing the lake. Open water. Small rickety boat. He appeared to read my thoughts through my translucent face.

"Oh yes, I'd forgotten. Your curiously unconquerable fear of H20. I do apologize but you're rather limited on choice for means of transportation."

"Not _all_ water, you nitwit. It's not like I'm afraid to take a bath or anything."

"So, what is it then?"

"Nothing I'm sure as hell gonna tell you. Let's just do this as quickly and painless as possible."

"Would you prefer to be unconscious or perhaps the blindfold?" he joked.

"Don't even touch me…unless of course, I'm drowning."

It was an uneventful yet unbearable boat ride before we reached our destination. It was a cleverly hidden house, really, camouflaged within the rest of the stone and rock that surrounded the cellars. The only evidence was that there was a door. A door leading nowhere, it was made to appear. Erik had locked Christine in a room he'd specially prepared for her, and after shaking my head at his unorthodox tactics on how to treat houseguests, he slipped in to talk to her first and explain our arrangement. Needless to say, Christine was stunned speechless to see me and naturally had many questions.

"All questions will be answered in due time, my dear." Erik explained. "In a week's time you and Mademoiselle Buquet will return above. By then you will have been with me for two full weeks and I hope that within that time, you will learn not to fear me and will come back to me."

My, but didn't we make an odd trio. A self-appointed trinity brought together by fate and opera. That same fate that brought me to Joseph and that same fate that took his life. Yes, a peculiar trinity—the demon, the angel, and the cross-dressing culture-shock; branded as nothing more than a vagabond. I shared Christine's room where we could talk more privately and she poured all her fears and secrets as well as tears, apologizing for sounding so wicked, but was thankful that I was confined with her in such a terrible place and she didn't have to suffer it out alone. I found I couldn't sleep much (due to the fact Christine didn't sleep much either), so it wasn't highly unusual for Erik to find me asleep on the sofa with a book on the floor nearby, after which, I would wake up covered by a blanket that hadn't been there before. He never said anything about it, so neither did I.

He had a small but enticing library. Christine and I would be in and out of it all the time, various times of the day. Sometimes Erik would read aloud to us in the evenings as we sat by the fireplace. It's not like we had much else to do. Erik wouldn't let Christine out of his sight, it seemed, so we never left the house. They still went on with singing lessons and I got to hear his music for the first time. I can't begin to describe what it did to me. How hauntingly beautiful it could be, how different it sounded from all other music I've heard. This was a very personal and private time for the both of them and Erik did not hesitate in telling me so. He preferred that I didn't intrude and be a cause of distraction for Christine. I knew there was more to it than that, because I would peek in on them on occasion when my curiosity couldn't stand to be ignored, but I complied with his wishes and tried to keep myself occupied elsewhere for the duration of the lessons. But one can only do so much reading.

It was the third day Erik realized this and decided it was time I went up to work for awhile. The stagehands were all amuck, baffled and curious as to where I'd been. Of course, honesty didn't have much of a part to play here, and I couldn't answer truthfully. I merely said I was getting away for recuperation purposes and probably would for the rest of the week. They'd exchange glances but wouldn't press any further, except Jacques. He caught up to me at the lunch hour.

"Recuperation, eh? Just what are we recuperating from?"

"Really, I'm surprised you have to ask."

"Oh, of course, how stupid of me. About Ol' Jo, right?"

From his tone I could tell he was suspicious and wasn't convinced by my façade. He kept digging and our conversation turned into somewhat of a game—an annoying game. Who could hold out the longest? Who was the better actor?

"No doubt, you've noticed the affect this whole ordeal has had on me. I'm worn out and half mad. I thought it best to take a little time away from the Opera. It'll be good for my health."

"Naturally, but I do wonder, why now? And since when do you care about your health? I practically had to fist-fight food down your throat so you wouldn't starve yourself to death!"

Uh-oh. My lingering pause made his suspicions grow.

"Why after all this time do you choose to take off now? It's been nearly three weeks since—since the incident."

"What can I say, I've been in denial." I said through clenched teeth, beginning to lose patience. He broke first.

"Okay, what's going on, Maggie?"

"Shh!" I glanced nervously around the Café de L'Opera. "Don't call me that! Do you want everyone and their dog to know?" I stuck a forkful of chicken in my mouth.

"Then tell me what this is really about."

I sighed irritably around a mouthful, rolling my eyes. "I can't."

"Are you in some kind of trouble?"

_Yes, I'm Death's houseguest._ "Now why would you think that?"

"Because I know—_knew_—Jo and I'm beginning to see a pattern, here. Can't pull the wool over my eyes, Mags. You two are too much alike."

"Would you knock it off?" I instantly lowered my voice, noticing we'd drawn some attention. I tend to do that a lot. "No, I'm not in any trouble."

"Would you tell me if you were." The question was slowly drawn out to sound like a statement, like he already knew the answer. He seemed to stare intently through the table.

"Why do you care? I can take care of myself."

"Jo thought so too and now look where he is! So yes, I care a great deal."

Saying this appeared to have exhausted him as if he'd had it on his mind for some time and it relieved him to let it out now.

"Thank you, Jacques, but I'm fine."

He nodded, staring at his coffee before picking it up. "Yeah…of course. Of course you are."

Feeling guilty for being so snippy, I softened. "Thank you, Jacques. I guess I'm just not used to someone who gives a damn."

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly in a tired half smile but it didn't do much to erase the pensive look from his face.

**Jacques**

_The Opera was producing Carmen. Joseph Buquet had been at the Opera for a little over a month. He was initiated into the Hell's Angels Brotherhood. A laidback man of good humor and bad hold of liquor, he became an instant favorite among the boys and was well liked. But then something changed…_

_A few of us were down in the cellars—the first two only—to locate some set pieces. If something was needed below the second cellar we'd draw straws, arm wrestle or whatnot to decide who would go down. More often than not, Joseph volunteered. He wasn't superstitious like the rest of us. Of course he hadn't yet seen the Ghost's handiwork firsthand, either. It was one time that Joseph came bounding up the stairs, two at a time from the third cellar, pale, shaken, breathless and without the props he was sent down for. _

_He began raving about a face—a horrendous, indescribable demonic face that could hardly be called such. He wouldn't say how he'd come to see it. He insisted it was the Ghost. That was the day he became a believer. It was also the day he became an alcoholic, drinking excessively, even downing a flask on the sly when he thought no one was looking. It was the day he started the ghost stories, whether true or not, no one seemed to mind. After a few weeks he began looking paler with bloodshot eyes and deep circles under them as if he hadn't slept a wink for many days. He became more withdrawn and stared off into space. Over time, his drinking didn't cease but he did it in the confines of his room rather than out in a bistro with his friends. _

_Finally, I took him aside one evening after our work was done, bought him a drink. We talked a little about trivial things, then I began to ask questions which he easily dodged. _

"_What's going on, Jo? You don't seem quite yourself as of late." _

"_I don't know what you're goin' on about. There's nothin' wrong with me." He'd mutter, fully aware of the direction this conversation was going._

"_I beg to differ, Jo. Look at you. You haven't been sleeping, you always show up drunk or leave drunk, you look like the walking dead. __**Something's**__ up."_

_Joseph sighed wearily, as if he'd sang this old song before. "It's nothin' for you to worry about, Jacques. It's my own burden." _

"_Are you in any trouble, Jo? You know you can tell me." _

_He smirked. "No, Jacques. Even if I were, as I said, it's my burden to bear."_

_I slammed my glass down on the table. "Horseshit! Joseph, you lying ijit!*" My action unintentionally stirred up his temper. _

"_Why do you give a shit? It's __**my**__ life!" _

"_I give a shit because you're our mate, Jo! That's what brotherhood is all about. You give a shit about each other!" _

_Jo managed to calm down after that, and even gave a small chuckle though it sounded more like a grunt. _

"_I apologize, Jacques, you're right. But this is nothin' I can't handle. I know how to take care of myself." _

_I gave up the argument then, knowing I would get no more out of him. "Right. Whatever you say, Jo. If you ever need a chat…I'll buy you a drink."_

"_Thank you, Jacques. But I'm fine."_

**Maggie**

The stagehands weren't the only ones who noticed my absence. Meg rushed up to me later that day, also begging to know what'd I'd been up to. I hated lying, I really did but seeing as she was particularly close to Christine and being still so young, I didn't think she would understand. Meg was also a notorious gossip. So, needless to say, I wasn't confident entrusting her with such information. I tried to be as honest as I could without spilling the beans.

"I'm sorry Meg, but I just can't tell you."

"Why not?" She whined.

"Because it's not my secret to tell."

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, so it _is_ a secret! Please tell me! I swear not to tell anyone else."

"Please Meg, don't ask me." I pleaded, leaving her standing there, intent on getting away before I cracked.

"It's about Christine isn't it?" I stopped, which was apparently a good enough answer for her. "Please, Maggie. As a close personal friend, I think I have a right to know."

I could see the waterworks working their magic and realized in that moment how everything about Meg reminded me very much of Kessy. Dear, sweet little Kessy who sat home wondering where her family had gone. Finally, I gave in.

"Fine but we can't talk here."

"We could go up to the roof. There shouldn't be anyone up there this time of year. Too cold."

Meg led the way up the winding staircase that led to the door of the roof. The snow had stopped for the time being and we could see the setting sun glint off the patches of thawing snow. The wintery breeze hadn't died down however, and I immediately wished I'd worn a jacket as did Meg I'm sure.

"I can't stay very long, so I'll be brief."

"Where are you going?"

"It's—there's just somewhere I have to be." She waited for me to continue, rubbing her arms rapidly for warmth. "Meg, try to understand that there's not much I can tell you but I will say this much…I've seen Christine."

Her eyes widened and sparkled with an onslaught of questions. "You've seen her? Where? Is she alright?"

"She's fine. She's—staying with someone."

"Someone outside of the Opera?"

"Sort of."

"Well, when did you see her?"

"Yesterday." I saw the light in her eyes dim slowly into suspicion.

"Who is it?"

"A friend."

"That doesn't tell me a lot."

"I told you I couldn't." Suspicion turned to doubt.

"You don't expect me to believe it was her so-called Angel, do you?"

Yes, that's exactly what I expect you to believe. "In a way, yes."

Her face crumpled in hurt and frustration, which, I must say, surprised me. As little as I knew about Meg, I'd never seen her this way. She was bubbly, curious, always on the move, the very epitome of "life". This new side of exasperation, doubt, negativity was someone else all together, not her. Not Little Meg.

"Look, I know I'm not the _sharpest knife in the drawer, _but I'm not that dimwitted."

"What?"

"Don't toy with me. I never believed in that "Angel of Music" trash anymore than you did."

"Well, Meg…I was wrong." I replied calmly, still adjusting to her mood swing. She looked at me in disbelief. "Besides, how else did she come to sing so well? I heard she wasn't exactly the pick of the litter before I came."

Meg nodded. "She sounded like a goat. So she's been taking lessons. She just chooses not to say who her real tutor is, can't say I blame her. Do you know how many chorus girls would sell their soul to get their hands on a teacher like that? I played along with this because I know it made her feel good. But I can't do it anymore. So please, _please_ just tell me the truth."

I'm not sure why I did it. Maybe there was a spoonful of gossip in my nature, too. Maybe I couldn't stand this new Meg. Maybe it was the relief of getting at least one burden off my chest. When swimming in a sea of maybes, you grab the nearest life preserver whether it's reliable or not.

"Meg, I will tell you and I need you to try very hard to understand. Christine…Christine is with the Phantom." Her eyes widened in wonder and puzzlement. "The Angel and Phantom are one and the same."

Her jaw dropped and I figured her eyes would fall out of her head. "And how do _you_ know all this?"

I stood silent a long while, sifting through my words carefully. "I've met him." She eyed me more and more suspiciously with each passing second.

"You're in league with the Phantom!"

"It's not what you think."

"Well, what should I think? He's taken my best friend for god sake, and you're involved!"

"Not willingly! I guess you could say I'm _under contract_."

"In other words, working for him."

"Not because I want to, I sort of _have_ to."

"Why?" She demanded harshly. Another persona of Meg one rarely witnesses—an angry accusing side.

_It was like seeing her through a three-sided mirror: a different angle of Meg in each reflection. When Monsieur Gaston Leroux wrote his book based on these events, Meg was sketched idly as a silly, empty-headed, will-o-the-wisp girl, fulfilling the role of a scrawny scatter-brained gossip and nothing more, doing her a great injustice. It's true Meg may have seemed those things to many who viewed her. But no one really __**knew**__ her, just as they never really knew me. _

"Never mind, Meg," I sighed, "I've already let on far too much and I can see this conversation is headed in a nasty direction." I headed for the door to make my point clear that this was over.

"Where are you going? We're not done." I paused halfway through the door frame reluctantly meeting her angry, confused gaze.

"Yes, we are. I told you there's somewhere I have to be." And I shut the door, trotting quickly down the winding stairs and ducking into a nearby door, waiting until I heard Meg pass. After a few minutes I came out and made my way cautiously to the third cellar, where Erik was no doubt twiddling his thumbs, waiting for me.

**Good long chapter in exchange for good long absence—I make peace. I'm quitting my second job soon, but then school starts up again, so we'll see what happens. I've already got a head start on next chapter so it should come up soon. **

**~I. Wolf **


	24. stars and suspicions

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Made me smile. ******** Here, I'll be introducing a brief, rare tender moment between Erik and Maggie. Enjoy.**

"You're late."

"I know. I had something to take care of."

"I see." Was it just me or did he sound more bitter than usual?

"Sor-ry." I put up my hands in mock defense.

"We must hurry, I have a surprise tonight."

I paused in removing my cap and hair pins, to look at him but he was already several paces ahead, which resulted in me jogging to catch up. "What kind of surprise?"

"What good would a surprise be if I told you? Initially, it was intended only for Christine, but I didn't relish the thought of leaving you alone with all my valuables."

"So…it's _outside _the Opera?" He merely shrugged, reveling in the torturous suspense he was keeping me in and said nothing more until we reached his house.

We ate a light supper (at least Christine and I did, Erik never ate much if at all), after which, Erik revealed his surprise. I stood off to the side pretending to be immensely interested in some of his collectables, many of which looked foreign and expensive.

"Christine, my dear, how would you like to go out this evening?" I watched Christine's face radiate with excitement for the first time since I'd been there.

"Oh yes, very much, Erik!"

"Don't you have anything else to wear?" The comment was directed at me.

"What's wrong with it? It's a perfectly adequate and sensible outfit."

"It's your only outfit."

Before I could come up with a suitable retort, Christine piped up, "She can wear something of mine. I've been dying to get her in a dress again." And she dragged me and my feeble protests into her Louis-Phillipe room.

After we all dressed warmly, Erik led us through a passage way I'd never known existed, and after many twists and turns I began to think we weren't really going outside at all. Finally, I could see a very faint light ahead and felt the stir of a small breeze in my hair as we approached a tall iron gate.

"This is the entrance from the Rue Scribe side." Erik informed us.

On the other side of the gate a brougham awaited our arrival. The faint light had come from the moon overhead and amidst the patches of snow and freezing night, it seemed like a block of ice illuminating the city's relentless winter. The frigid night air nipped at us and I tugged my flimsy olive green jacket tighter around me as inconspicuously as possible. Erik, who was helping Christine into the brougham noticed.

"Don't you have anything better to wear than that old rag? It's the middle of winter for god sake."

Straightening in attempt to mask how cold I really felt, I replied rather sourly, "Oh yes, I do in fact…in the elaborate wardrobe I keep in my pocket! Did it ever occur to you that vagabonds tend to travel light?"

He stared at me with unreadable eyes before sighing and I immediately felt guilty about my rotten attitude. We were out for a pleasant night ride, no reason to go out of my way to ruin it.

"Sorry," I muttered sincerely before slipping past him. Before I could step up into the brougham however, I felt a weight on my shoulders and glanced down to see his black woolen cloak placed on them. I paused on the step, looking back at him in slight bewilderment before accepting, gripping it tightly and gratefully to my petite body.

We stopped at the bridge over the Seine and got out. Christine was like a giddy child, gliding from side to side of the bridge, taking in the tranquil beauty of the numerous stars above as well as the city lights below them. I too, gazed at the stars with her. Enchanting as they were I thought it much better to view them from the rooftop. Up there they seemed to take up the entire sky, stretching on forever, although it was fairly difficult to catch them lately, due to the stormy clouds. I looked back to the brougham to find Erik's intense gaze on Christine and I. In the darkness, his eyes were almost like stars themselves; stars with an unfathomable expression. The moment they made contact with mine he shook himself out of his daze and slowly trailed over to Christine.

I stared into the icy river, the inky black depths absorbing my thoughts, blocking out Christine's voice and Erik's occasional input. Chunks of ice bobbed around the columns of the bridge's foundation. It was an all-too-familiar scene.

"_Hurry up, Joseph, Maggie's goin' ta beat ya!" Danny cried. _

"_Never!" Joseph laughed, running behind his siblings with a pair of ice skates slung over his shoulder. _

"_Give up, old man!" I laughed. _

_We strapped our skates on as quickly as we could. Danny was first one on the ice, followed by Joseph, then me. We had such a grand time that day. _The sight of us teetering, slipping, the sound of our boisterous laughter still rings in my ears. But then there are other sounds, overpowering sounds that drown out the happy ones.

_"Oh my God, Danny!" My scream. _

_"Pa! Pa, help!" Joseph's scream._

_Scream after scream, followed by the sharp scraping of blades on ice. And all the dreaded lapses of chilling silence in between—the most deafening sound of all. _

I didn't even notice the few tears that slid down my cheek until Erik's voice crashed through my reverie.

"Are you feeling ill?"

Startled, my head snapped up to see what I could've mistaken for concern in those glowing orbs. I shook my head, hastily turning my face away to hide the fact that I had been crying.

"What's wrong, then?" I couldn't tell if he sounded determined or annoyed.

"Nothing you need concern yourself about."

"Fine."

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and let it go with a soft 'whoosh'. When I regained some composure I glanced over at him again but his attention was drawn out beyond the Seine.

"I make swell company tonight, don't I?"

"You have a lot on your mind I imagine." It felt so comforting to hear his soothing voice when it wasn't harsh, unfeeling, or yelling at me.

"The stars are so amazing out here." I changed the subject, looking up at the objects of conversation, partly to distract him from my tear-stained face and to swallow back threatening ones, brimming in the corners.

"They've often been a comfort to me," he replied. "An earthly beauty I never grow tired of."

I nodded in agreement. "But they're nothing compared to the ones in Ireland."

He gave a small smile. "A more extensive version I'd assume. No city lights to smother them."

"Our Da, he used to tell us as children that each one represented the tears, prayers, and wishes from all over the world, waiting to be answered."

"Your father sounds like a very idealist man."

I couldn't help giving a light chuckle. "He was quite the dreamer. Still is. Not at all like Mum or Joseph…" It felt wrong for some obscure reason to mention his name around Erik. After all, it was he who murdered him. There was an awkward, uncomfortable silence.

"The only thing Jo ever dreamed of was getting away from Ireland." I continued bitterly.

"Which was obviously accomplished."

"The opportunity, more or less came his way."

Again, quiet. Christine, who had wandered to the other end of the bridge, now sauntered back, the content expression of freedom never left her face.

"It's time to go." Erik announced and we reluctantly headed back to the awaiting brougham.

It all ended too quickly. We took a different route back to the Opera. Neither of us said much. Erik asked if we would like to do this again, sometime. I smiled and Christine's gold curls bounced as she nodded eagerly. The streets we traveled down were darker compared to the main city streets and so the moon absolutely gleamed, bathing the neighborhood in a bluish glow. Christine rolled the window down and leaned out. Her already beautiful features enhanced by the moonlight, making her appear almost ethereal. Erik must have thought so, too. He couldn't take his eyes off her and I felt a twinge of some unnatural feeling in my gut, which I would come to realize later was the bitter sting of jealousy.

Now, it's normal to want something somebody else has but I wasn't like the upper class girls who practically thrived in covetous lifestyles. I learned early on how to be perfectly satisfied with my lot in life as all Buquets did. In this light, we learned what it meant to really "live," what's worth living for, not take anything for granted. And so, while I did occasionally wonder what it would be like to have some of the nice things other girls had, I had never really been one to get jealous—until that night.

For the first time, I saw, really saw all Christine had. Beautiful face, nice clothes, pretty trinkets, friends, the voice of an angel, handsome men at her beck and call…and I envied her. Next to her, I felt like nothing, I had nothing to offer and that made me aware of just how alone I was and probably always would be.

My melancholy thoughts were interrupted by a distant voice, shouting after the carriage. Christine's head turned sharply before a combination of confusion, then recognition, then horror dawned on her face and she yanked her head back in, frantically rolling up the window. As Erik turned to peek out the tiny oval window behind him I looked to Christine for some kind of explanation. She met my eyes briefly and mouthed "Raoul" before glancing back at Erik, then at her lap. Erik had turned back around and was watching her intently.

"Why, what ever is the matter, Christine?"

"Nothing! I—I just felt a bit chilly, that's all."

The expression in the those catty eyes shifted so swiftly I couldn't make out if he was just playing ignorant and toying with her or if he was truly upset. It didn't take long to find out.

"What a coincidence, is it not, that your boy should be out so late?"

I could see Christine becoming increasingly uncomfortable and she tried to hide it by looking out the window.

"I can't imagine what he's doing out here at this hour," she replied nervously.

His eyes narrowed. "Can't you? You seem quite anxious, Christine," he nearly growled her name, "Why so worried? I'm sure he was just enjoying a midnight stroll, right?"

"Erik, it's not--," she began but Erik cut her off.

"Driver!" He pounded on the roof of the brougham. "Speed up." Not another word was exchanged the rest of the way.


	25. author note

**Author's note: I positively loathe interrupting a story for author notes, but I have found myself in a bit of a predicament and would appreciate the help of my readers. ******** The Masquerade scene will be coming up shortly, and I'm trying to decide what Maggie will be. I have three choices. **

**-Pirate queen**

**-celtic fairy**

**-mermaid**

**Please comment/review on which you would prefer and would suit Maggie's character, ASAP. Thank you.**

**~Ivory Wolf~**


	26. That Thing Called Trust

"_And if you knew winter_

_You would know it_

_Cannot be undone, only_

_Pressed beneath the fields."_

_-Kate Ford_

Once ushered safely (if not a bit roughly) back into the house, Erik slammed the door shut.

"Erik, please say something," Christine begged worriedly.

"Go to your room, Christine." I could tell by the way he drew out each word that he was trying very hard not to lose control.

"But--,"

"Didn't you hear me? I said GO!" He lashed out suddenly, causing Christine to break down in tears.

"I didn't do anything." She cried before running to her room. Erik promptly locked the door.

"What are you doing? Have you gone completely batty?"

He whirled on me, absolute fury raging through those amber eyes like fierce rapids in a murky river. "I might ask you the same question."

"What are you talking about?"

"The Vicomte de Chagny!" You let him know of our little outing, didn't you? You've been acting as a go-between, a little mole in my employment!"

"Are you mad, how can you possibly think that?" He was out of his mind, making accusations completely untrue! I had never even met the Vicomte.

"You take me for a fool? You expect me to buy that it was mere coincidence he fancied taking a stroll on exactly the same route at exactly the same time as us? As far as I'm concerned, _both_ of you planned this in hope no doubt her knight in shining armor would rescue you, too!"

"How could I tell him when I didn't even know?" I pointed out. "It was _your_ surprise, _ your _planned outing. We were with you the entire evening!"

"Erik, leave her alone!" Christine's muffled cry seeped through the door. "We haven't done anything to conspire against you!"

"I haven't even met the man!" I added. But Erik was on a roll. Like a lit fuse, once it started there was no way to stop it.

"Silence, you fraudulent vixens!"

He held his head in his hands as if to keep it from exploding, to block our voices out—or other voices in…it was one of the first moments I truly questioned his sanity.

"The lying Delilah," he spoke to the door imprisoning Christine, "and the _Jezebel,_" he spat at me. "Two of God's finest masterpieces. You play your parts so very well, pretending my face inflicts no feeling of repulsion in you. I thought you could be different, especially you, Christine!" He sobbed broken-heartedly. "I gave you more credit than that! But now, I see it was all just a game, a well-acted game…but I've won. You'll both remain here, locked away forever with a monster."

He was doubled-over, crying, Christine was crying. It was a highly emotional moment but I could not find it in me to cry as well. I was angrier than anything else. Angry and thoroughly annoyed.

"Look, you honestly can't—,"

"Honestly?" he interrupted, head snapping up to look at me with such disdain that I shut my mouth. "Yes, that was another mistake: in believing you to be an honest person, a woman of her word, especially considering all the circumstances of our "relationship." I expected it even more from you than from her." By now he was standing at full height, advancing on me.

"I. did. _nothing._" I drew out slow and articulately.

Before I registered what was happening, he had me once again up against the wall, hands around my throat.

"You lied! _'I believe there could be more to you'_" he mocked, referring to what I'd told him the night I'd first seen his face. "Do me a favor; do _yourself_ a favor by not lying to me now. You couldn't wait to get Christine and yourself out of my grasp and run far, far away from here. Just say it! You can't stand the sight of me!"

Jesus Christ… "You crazy bastard, it's you!" I screamed.

His hands were already trembling so badly it didn't take much effort to throw my arms up in between us and thrust his away. He stumbled back a step at the outburst.

"It's not your face, it's YOU! How can anyone stand you when you act like a spoiled child?"

For once, he kept quiet and regarded me as though I'd just slapped him, to which I was more than willing to oblige but kept my clenched fists at my sides.

"You are not responsible for what people think about you, but you _are _responsible for what you _give _them to think about you!"

And before I gave in to any drastic impulses, I fled the room and into the library (having nowhere else to go at the moment as I was locked out of my staying room), slammed the door and pushed a table against it seeing as the lock had no key. I knew it wouldn't keep him out if he really desired to get in, but it was something and something was better than nothing. Right now, we all just needed to be alone with our thoughts. Him, most of all.

This is how the next day's events took place:

I awoke to see the table still in front of the door. I had curled up in the arm chair and fallen asleep. Was it still night or morning? As there were no windows it was easy to lose track of time in this place. I pressed my ear to the door but all was deadly quiet. Sliding the table back into its original place, I noticed a slip of folded paper on the ground. Unfolding it, I recognized Erik's handwriting.

_Maggie,_

_I sincerely apologize for my ill behavior last night. It was uncouth of me to impose such accusations on you and I sincerely hope you might find it in your heart to forgive my inexcusable outburst. Furthermore, I have something to discuss with you and Christine whenever you should choose to rejoin our company. _

_Most humbly,_

_Erik_

I released a little smile after refolding the note and stuffing in my undergarments (Christine's gown, which I still wore, had no pockets). Perhaps, he wasn't such a bad seed after that Erik was nowhere about, I tiptoed to Christine's room and tapped lightly on the door. "Christine? It's me."

The door abruptly opened and I was greeted with a tired, chalk-white face. Purple circles ringed her eyes and I knew she didn't sleep so well, either.

"Hey there, Delilah." I joked. The corner of her mouth lifted slightly.

"Good morning Jezebel."

We chatted softly as I changed out of her now-wrinkled dress and back into my own clothes. Christine told me that Erik had already been to see her earlier that morning, flinging himself at her feet and begging like a dog for forgiveness. I thought about the brief note of apology he'd slid under the door to me and couldn't help but compare it with the effort and enthusiasm he put into his apology to Christine—face to face. Of course, she didn't have furniture barricading the door.

We talked for a long time. She shared things with me I knew she'd never dream of sharing with Erik—like her notes to Raoul for example. Sometime between her triumph onstage and her disappearance, Christine had gone to Perros-Guirec to visit her father's grave. It was the anniversary of his death and being a devout Catholic, wanted to pay her respects. She admitted having written a note to the Vicomte (who had been desperately trying to see her), informing him of her plans. He had met her there at a little inn the following day but she wasn't exactly hospitable towards him.

"Erik—before I knew he was Erik—was to be at the cemetery in Perros, as well. Back when I believed him to be my Angel of Music, he promised he would be in the churchyard and at precisely midnight, play the _Resurection of Lazarus_ on the violin for me."

"And you were afraid of what he would do if Raoul followed you? Well, that would certainly explain why he was quick to accuse you for his untimely appearance last night."

She nodded. "I'm sure Erik blames me for last night, especially after what happened in Perros."

I quirked an eyebrow. "What _did _happen in Perros?"

"As it turns out, Raoul did follow me. I had no idea at the time. We'd met in the churchyard earlier that evening where I'd decided to finally tell him about my great secret—the Angel of Music."

"And what did he say?"

"He didn't believe me, of course…thought it all to be some joke. Needless to say, we had a rather bittersweet farewell at that meeting."

_Truth be told, in all that Christine ever told me about the Vicomte de Chagny, I never took much of a liking to the man. According to Christine's countless recollections and descriptions of Raoul, yes, maybe he was a sweet and courageous if not headstrong boy, but that's all he really was at the time—just a boy, and she, just a little girl. Though we were all around the same age, they were really just love-sick children, swimming in naivety until they drowned in it. Maybe all I saw was a spoiled little brat sitting on a comfy title and flawless life; maybe it was the stench of aristocracy and everything I was against; maybe I was being prejudiced or jealous of things I never had, never could have…just maybe…_

So, you can't imagine," Christine continued, "how shocked the landlady and I were to find Raoul half-frozen on the inn's doorstep the next morning."

"What?"

"Apparently, he'd been found in the churchyard, sprawled across the steps of the high altar. Poor Raoul, he must've had a terrible scare!" She grew thoughtful for a moment as if about to make a great decision. "Maggie…I know we haven't been friends for very long and I know you've been dragged into this awful mess by Erik and I—,"

"Christine, quit beating 'round the bush and just say what you need to say."

"Would you deliver a message for me the next time you go up?"

"A message? For whom?"

Her eyes shifted away from mine. "For Raoul."

She reached into the drawer of her vanity and pulled out an addressed envelope without a postage stamp. I bit my lip. "I don't know, Christine. What if Erik finds out?"

"He won't," she reassured, "he trusts you enough--,"

"No, he doesn't!"

"More you than me. Please? It's just to let him know I'm alright and that he must never attempt to see me again."

Her tone sounded so sorrowful, so resigned—resigned to a fate she could not avoid, so I conceded to her request.

"I'll get it to him the first chance I get." No sooner had I said this when there were three short raps on the door.

"Christine? Is Mademoiselle Buquet in there with you?" came Erik's muffled voice.

Fear drained any remaining color in Christine's face as she shakily thrust the letter into my hands, which I proceeded to stuff into my trouser pocket.

"Yes!" She called out, "She's here."

The door opened tentatively as Erik poked his head in. "Oh good, you're decent—or at least one of you is." He eyed my usual masculine attire but not with his usual look of distaste. Some other look brushed through those golden eyes, one I couldn't quite put my finger on. Dare I call it mirth?

"Shove off," I retorted just as playfully.

"Now, that's hardly an appropriate farewell." He smirked at our confused expressions as he walked to the middle of the room, hands clasped behind him. "I'm letting the two of you return above. I know it's not exactly been the full week we originally agreed upon, but I think it would be for the best."

Christine's eyes immediately brightened, bringing on a bout of excitement that I'm sure Erik anticipated.

"However," he held up a bony finger, "there are conditions. The first: you will no longer associate with that boy."

Christine's face fell, extinguishing the light that flickered there only seconds before, but she said nothing.

"Secondly, have you ever heard of the Bal Masque, Mademoiselle Buquet?"

"A what?"

"Once a year after the Christmas season, the Opera Populaire puts on a masquerade where the company and their guests can act ten times more idiotic than they do the rest of the year."

"I take it you're not much of a party animal."

"I'm not finished. The Masquerade will be held around the New Year, which is little more than a week away. I will give you each a substantial amount of money to go and find yourselves suitable costumes."

"Thank you, Erik. That's very generous of you." Christine said, rather emotionless. It was a toss up whether she was still stinging from Erik's forbidding her to see Raoul again or feeling obligated to accept Erik's money.

He looked to me for some sort of response. "This masquerade—it will be formal?"

"Most of the time, yes. Although, I've heard that this year's ball is to be more bohemian than ones in the past."

"Will I have to wear silk stockings and corsets, and all that frilly shite*?"

His eyes narrowed at my choice of words. "I suppose that would depend on what gender you choose your costume to portray."

"And there will be lords and ladies…aristocrats?"

"Unfortunately."

"Then what makes you think I would want to go?"

Christine grasped my hands. "Oh please, Maggie! It's not what you think, not at all!"

"She will need someone to accompany her." Erik added in a tone that left no room for protests.

"Then _you _do it!" I retorted, throwing up my hands in frustration, before marching out of the room and back to the library, which had recently become my safe haven.

I heard their muffled voices through the door, but couldn't catch many words in their conversation. Sick of being shut up in the library, I decided to go down by the lake and cool off. However, I encountered Erik in the hallway.

"Buquet, I want to talk with you."

"Well, as you can see, I'm not in much of a mood for talking." I muttered, trying to shoulder past but he blocked my path.

"Listen for a moment, you stubborn girl! I'm not going to make you chaperone Christine. We talked and…well, you were right. I need to give her some time to herself. She's not such a child anymore. I can't keep her in an ivory tower forever."

"That's good." And I meant it.

Maybe Christine wasn't the only one doing some growing up, realizing that love's hand cannot be forced or bound. And I couldn't help feeling some sense of accomplishment. I know it sounds prideful but hey, I'm Irish, we're born that way.

"But you should still attend."

"I've never been to a ball and I have no interest in them." I was finally allowed to pass, only to have my reins jerked back by his next words.

"In reality, what you're saying is that you're afraid to go." Turning to face him, I caught the challenging glint in his eye, eager to get out. "And here I had the impression you were the sort of girl who's up for anything; laughs in the face of danger."

"Drunks in penguin suits are hardly dangerous."

"Then you wouldn't mind proving it…by going with me."

"What?" He walked up to me—quite close I might add, and I had to crane my neck to meet his eyes.

"I'm asking to escort you to the Masquerade Ball."

What trick was this? Take _me _to a ball? Ridiculous. Maybe that's why he suggested it…so he could bear witness to whatever humiliation might befall me amongst a crowd of the social elite. Perhaps this was all just for his amusement, one of his twisted games in which he was the only player. But as I stared into those intense amber eyes, I saw no tricks, no mischief—just a hanging question awaiting an answer. He held out his hand.

"Think of it as an adventure."

I thought of something a wise man told me once. _"Sometimes you go a thousand miles just to learn one thing you couldn't learn at home. You're a beautiful young woman, Maggie, and there's nothin' wrong with showin' that sometimes. It doesn't make you any less smart."_

"Well, as my da' would say, sometimes you go a thousand miles just to learn one thing you couldn't learn at home. I never did much to make him or my mama proud, so for one night only, I'll learn to be a lady."

I hesitantly placed my thin calloused hand in his cold skeletal one. It was bony, it did have a strange smell and it was so cold it sent chills up my arm—at least, I believe it was the coldness…but honestly, none of that bothered me.

"Besides," I continued, "I never was a girl to pass up an adventure."


	27. Bal Masque

The Buquet Sister Ch. 26

"More often than not, most of us girls just borrow an ensemble from the costume department. It'll be nice to buy something new for a change."

Christine tugged me along as we walked down the streets of Paris, searching for the boutique in which we were to meet Meg. So much had been going on while were _out of the picture_. Time had raced around the corner, disappearing into shop windows now displaying hints of Christmas, which had snuck up on us.

During my time with Erik and Christine, I had almost forgotten it was mid December, which held the joyous holiday and all of its forlorn memories…but no. I won't think anymore on that. This time I will start anew, celebrate new things with new friends and try—try my damndest—to move on, move on like Joseph never could.

"It's strange," I began, "I've been in Paris almost a month and still haven't seen much of it, save for La Vie En Rose, of course."

"Then this outing is just the thing for both of us."

We came to a small shop just on the other side of a bakery, which smelled heavenly and had a grand velvet green ribbon draped across the window. The window of the small boutique displayed mannequins wrapped in festive gowns and white fur-lined cloaks. A tinny jingle sounded from the bells that clanked against the door's frame as Christine pushed it open. Meg rushed over to greet us—Christine more than I, as she held little trust in me since our last encounter—flanked by the quaint middle-aged shopkeeper who was built rather like a Pomeranian.

"I was almost afraid you weren't coming!" She hugged Christine tightly.

"Sorry, we're late but _someone_ was being quite stubborn about looking respectable in public." She darted a teasing glance my way, which made Meg roll her eyes.

"Of course, I should expect nothing less. Well, I've already found my costume. Wait till you see it, it's fantastic. I'm an angel."

"I hope you found a big enough halo to cover those horns stickin' out your head."

Meg playfully slapped my arm, which I suppose could pass as an unspoken forgiveness and I was accepted in her social graces again. It seemed Christine had already envisioned what her costume would be for she tried on only one—a black gown that rose just above her ankles and flared out at the waist like a bell, complete with a black domino. I looked through that shop forever, tried on numerous items and although some came close, none quite fit by Meg and Christine's standards.

"Well, this is the last one." I called from within the dressing room. "And I'll be damned if I'm wearing it to the Masquerade!"

"Language! Honestly, Maggie!" Christine chastised. I stepped out for inspection.

"Hmm…what do you think, Meg?"

"I think it…it has great potential."

I grimaced. "You're joking, right?"

"No, no. I think it could work. I'm not entirely sure what we could call you, but we can figure that out later."

Turning to face the full-length mirror again, I couldn't help but notice how much I resembled a frosted pastry. The gown was a glowing off-white with a high collar and enormous hoop skirt. And lace, lace _everywhere._ I don't think there was one inch that wasn't covered in lace. The base material of the dress was satiny, which was about it's only redeeming feature.

"No, we are _not _getting this thing."

"Oh, come on! With a few minor alterations and the right accessories, it'll be amazing. It really suits you, Maggie." Meg pouted.

"I look like a cold day in hell."

"Really, I don't know why we bring you out in public."

"I suspect for humiliation." I muttered, slouching into the sea of lace and frills.

"Well, you haven't failed us yet." Christine teased.

"I meant me."

After much more debate and weary sidelong glances from the shopkeeper, I purchased the gown. The short walk back to the Opera, we chatted about our costumes and tossed around idea after idea. In the middle of our conversation it dawned on me that I've been more in tune with my femininity here in Paris than any other time in my life. Wearing dresses, shopping, gossiping about pointless things with other women…Ma would be proud. And what I couldn't quite sort out was that I was starting to adapt to this change, this new me. Meg and Christine (and perhaps on occasion, Erik) were transforming an ugly unbridled duck into a tame domestic swan—one way to put it.

Etiquette and poise still aggravated me, dresses and corsets were vices of the devil, but I found myself enjoying Meg and Christine's company as much as the Hell's Angels crowd. I'd never really had any close companions, none that were female, anyway. The change ignited a warm satisfying feeling inside me and I felt content with the company I was keeping. And then we passed a shop window displaying toys and children's knickknacks: dolls, trains, horse and carts…and amidst it all sat a pair of ice skates, leaning against each other, laces pulled tight and double-knotted; the gleaming blade clean and without flaw.

_"Be sure to double-knot the laces!" _

Apparently, my train of thought crashed into Christine, nearly knocking her into the street.

"Oh, Jesus! Are you alright?" I reached out to help her regain her balance.

"Yes I'm fine. Are _you_ alright?"

"You seem to be in your own little world," Meg added.

"Sorry, I must be in need of thirty or forty winks. The day has taken its toll on me, I suppose."

Meg snorted. "What, shopping?"

"Yes, as you might've guessed, I don't usually partake in such excursions as…shopping."

"Don't fret, Maggie," Meg encouraged, linking her arm through mine, "You'll learn to pace yourself."

* * *

"It's perfectly hideous."

I ate lunch in my room with Jacques, and upon seeing the colossal dress box on my bed, he was naturally curious.

"It's not that bad," Jacques said around a mouthful of buttered bread.

"Then _you_ wear it." I threw it at him and he barely managed to catch it with one hand.

"I'm surprised they trusted you to hold onto it. Knowing you, I'd hide it as far away from you as possible."

"Stow it, Jacques, I'm not going to sabotage the wretched thing!" I snatched the dress back and held it up against me, trying to visualize how it looked on me in the shop.

"You know, it could work. You could go as an ice cream sundae." I glared. "Or the Ghost of Christmas Past."

"Some help you are, you cheeky idjit." Tossing the gown aside, I playfully punched him in the arm.

"Ow!"

He made a counterattack, brandishing the ultimate weapon: tickling. That used to be Joseph's favorite tactic and I somehow suspected Jacques of knowing.

I stumbled backwards, laughing and contracting, trying in vain to shield myself from his relentless assault. The bed interrupted my retreat, sending me toppling backwards onto it, which succeeded in knocking Jacques off-balance as he landed on top of me.

We both froze, out of breath from so much laughter. For a long awkward moment neither of us moved. I started up at Jacques, his sparkling eyes searching mine before straying to a strand of wayward hair (all of which had fallen out of its usual cap) that had fastened to my lip. He gently brushed it away to rejoin the mass that cascaded over the frothy pool of lace.

"You're quite the girl, you know that?"

"You're probably the only person to ever say that."

"Doubtful. Jo said it." Jacques rolled onto his back next to me.

"I thought he never talked about me."

"He didn't. He mentioned you a time or two, though. Mind you, he was a little worse for wear at those times."

"Well, he was quite the guy."

We lay there in thoughtful silence just staring up at the chalk drawings on the ceiling.

"Maggie?"

"Hmm?"

Would you want to go to the Masquerade with me?" I craned my head to look at him but his eyes remained focused on the ceiling.

"Oh, Jacques, I would but—well, I'm going with somebody else."

He turned his puzzled expression in my direction. "Daae and Giry?"

"Well yes, and someone else as well. A…friend of Christine's.

"Would I know him?"

"I don't think so. He's not very sociable, though I suppose in a way, he could be fairly recognizable."

"He just has one of those faces, eh?" _If you only knew... _"So, he knows who you are, then?" I nodded. "And how did he come to find out?"

"He's just a good guesser, like you." I teased.

Honestly, I'd never given much thought on how to dodge questions about my current employer should I be asked. And I didn't give much thought on how to dodge questions about my escort to the Bal Masque without raising more suspicion. I suppose I just figured nobody else would ask me to go, especially since the only men who knew my secret were Erik and Jacques.

"You're not going to tell me anything about him, are you?"

I swear Jacques must be gifted with telepathy. "No."

He sighed, but a mischievous smile worked its way into his features. "Well, if you happen to get tired of your man you can always join the stage crew party."

"You mean there are two separate parties on the same night?"

"Oh yes, every year. Some of us will go to the Masquerade for awhile but it always ends up being so stuffy. Those kinds of things are fun for the upper class. After a bit of mingling and good food, we go downstairs where the real fun is."

"Oh? Just what kind of fun?"

His smile grew more devious. "Only the most wicked kind, according to society. I suspect it's right up your ally."

I folded my arms and stuck my chin as high in the air as I could while lying down. "My ally, sir, is none of your business."

His surprise melted into a fit of laughter as he came after me again. "You devilish wench. Let no one doubt you are the sister of Joseph Buquet."


	28. Secret's Safe With Me

**A/N: Hey, gang. It's been awhile...Masquerade next chapter. I'm having a doozy of a time deciding what Maggie's going to be. Enjoy!**

Before Jacques left, he inquired once more about my costume gown and what was to become of it. I told him it would have to be a surprise, to me as well since I didn't know what to do with it. If I let Christine and Meg get their eager little hands on it I could end up going to the ball looking like a sacrificial lamb. No, I didn't dare give it to them but I was running out of ideas. I wanted to look breathtaking, enchanting—for the first time in my life, I wanted to dress to impress. I know I shouldn't give a flying fish what Erik thought of me—I never did before—but he was very talented at making one feel inferior. As I've oft said, he was perhaps the most enigmatic being I've ever known. His very aura demanded respect and obedience—things he had not easily gained from me.

I smiled wickedly while thinking of all the times I'd given him a run for his money. Heaven's to Betsy, what was I thinking! Enough thought on Erik, I needed to take care of the task at hand. Whom besides the company seamstress and wardrobe woman could I turn to for help? I needed a fellow woman of the world, someone else to trust…And the thought came to me, then, painting a sly smile across my face. I think it was high time I paid a visit to Edel Saint-Claire.

It felt strange being at the little tavern in the daylight hours. There were a couple of regulars sitting at the bar, getting a head-start on the long evening to come. With the dress box tucked under my arm I walked up to the tavern lady and inquired about Edel. She nodded towards the piano where a middle-aged man sat conversing with Edel. Gone were the sequins and scandalous skirts, replaced by an elegant salmon-colored day dress with black satin trim and lace fichu; a flattering ensemble while remaining respectable—proof to every critical eye that she was every inch a lady, as I've always said.

"I'm not singing more than the usual quantity, Marcel, forget it."

"Come on, Edel. Give the public what they want," the pianist argued. "You're La Vie En Rose's star attraction!"

Edel glanced up to catch me watching and recognition flashed through her eyes. She gave Marcel her charming cat-like smile. "If I'm the star then you do whatever I tell you to do and I'm telling you if you add even one more little ditty after the encore, you're face will be the new star attraction!" Sauntering away from the piano she greeted me warmly. "Sidney Buquet, what a nice surprise. Social call or business?"

"Umm…both you could say. Is there somewhere more private we could talk?"

"Of course. My dressing room's the first door at the top of the stairs. I'll ask Marie to send up a couple of brews and meet you there."

A half hour later, I sat back in the chair, sipping my beverage, awaiting Edel's response to all I'd just told her. Peering over her glass of brandy, she regarded me thoughtfully.

"I must say, you're quite the actress—you had me fooled."

"There's a select few I've entrusted this secret to, although they more or less figured it out on their own."

"Well, I have an open ear and a closed mouth." She winked. "Mum's the word."

"I'm so relieved.

"Now, about this costume—,"

I removed the box's lid and she pulled out the gown, scanning over it. "Hmm…well, you'll certainly be hard to miss."

"I need a miracle, here. Can you revive it? I was thinking of something to do with my homeland." I could almost see the gears turning in her head as she pondered over various designs.

"You're Irish aren't you." She stated before breaking out into a wide grin. "Call me the Miracle Worker of Southeast Paris."

"Thank you, Edel, you've saved my life."

She laughed. "No problem. I believe I can have it done in no time. Come pick it up the day after tomorrow—the day of the Bal Masque. You can get ready here if you like. I'll be attending as well."

"That's a fantastic idea. We'll take everybody by surprise." We said our farewells and I was growing ever more excited for the masquerade.

"You won't even recognize it," Edel referred to the dress as she walked me to the entrance of the tavern. I gave her a brief and grateful hug. "I'm counting on it.

The only thing anyone could talk about all the next day was the masquerade. The Hell's Angels stagehands and I assisted with the decorating. Jacques continued to dog me about the costume and my mysterious escort. Meg was disappointed that she didn't get her clutches on my dress, and I had to rescue Remy from the wrath of Carlotta (who was back for awhile), after which, he received a stern scolding from older brother, Jacques.

During lunch, Remy and I sat up in the catwalks, gnawing on smoked fish and dried fruit while sharing raunchy jokes, which is where Madame Giry found me and delivered Erik's latest threats and curses. I quickly stashed them away in my pocket before Remy could get too curious and snuck off to my room. There were two notes: one addressed to me and surprisingly, one addressed to Remy. Curious and a little concerned, I opened his.

_Monsieur Remy,_

_You strike me as such a clever young man and so I am surprised to have caught you sniffing around the lower cellars on more than one occasion, despite your brother's warning. Heed that warning, boy or you may end up like the Buquets—one brother short._

_ Most respectfully,_

_ O.G._

My throat went dry as sandpaper as my sole attention remained glued to the last line. How could he say that? How could be so cruel? Obviously, it wasn't meant for me to see but that didn't soften the cold fact that he said it. Carefully placing the note back in its envelope, I hastily opened mine.

_Mademoiselle Buquet,_

_I hope this letter finds you doing well. If you still wish me to escort you to the masquerade, meet me near Le Grand Escalier tomorrow night. I have a feeling it will be an unforgettable evening and look forward to the unveiling of your costume—which I have seen no evidence of. What are you up to, devious witch? _

_ Your Humble Servant,_

_ Erik_

Oh, sweet Jesus…I didn't understand. I didn't understand how someone could blow so hot and cold. When it came to Christine, he was melted butter, a dog at her feet. When it came to me he was civil, honest and courteous—sometimes. And when it came to everyone else, he was all thistle and thorns; a vendetta against man and God. How could one man live with juggling so many personalities? I guess hiding them behind a mask made it so much easier.

I felt torn between delivering Remy's note and throwing it away. But he needed to know, understand this wasn't a game. Coming to a decision, I tucked the envelope back in my pocket and went looking for Remy. The consequences he faced with me were far less than the ones he would face should Erik catch him. I passed Jacques on my way to the stage and pulled him into a secluded corner.

"I found this," I handed him the envelope. Jacques noted the addressee before opening it. I waited quietly as he read, watched his brow furrow in puzzlement and then worry. His head snapped up and his eyes grew dark and serious, losing their usual jovial gleam.

"How did you get this?"

"I told you, I found it."

"Is this your idea of a joke?"

"Far from it. You need to talk to your brother or I will."

I could tell Jacques had questions—his whole face twitched with suspicion, but I couldn't satisfy his curiosity. "Do it now," I commanded, and left before he could get a word in edgewise.

I paused just inside the exit to watch Jacques storm onstage, grab Remy by the shirt collar and tug him into the wings, shaking the note in his face. Satisfied that the situation was taken care of, I went in search of more work to do to keep any dark thoughts at bay.


	29. What new surprises lie in store

That night I had another nightmare. The worries I harbored from earlier that day manifested in terrible images.

_I was wandering through the dank moldy cellars of the Opera. I had the feeling I was searching for someone but didn't know who and I had to be on guard in case the Phantom popped out of some dark corner or trapdoor. It was quiet save for the steady rhythm of dripping water. I went down all flights of stairs and turned countless corners. The whole dream seemed to be a constant rhythm of repetition…stairs and turns, stairs and turns. I finally realized I was looking for Joseph but that I was also afraid to find him; afraid of HOW I would find him. _

_ I slowly approached another turn and could see a chamber dimly lit by the grey world glaring through a tiny window. Odd. I couldn't recall seeing any windows in the deeper cellars before. As I plucked up the courage to keep going, I thought I heard voices…whispers, reverberating off the mossy walls. And then, as I entered the chamber, it all went so quiet. I stared out the window at—nothing, just pale shapeless light. I heard a small barely-audible noise behind me and prepared to turn and face Erik or the vision of Joseph's lifeless body doing a swing dance from the high beam. But it wasn't Erik or Joseph…_

_ A noose gently swayed from a beam, tap-tapping against the wall, catching in the dull grey light. 'I know that wasn't there before!' my mind exclaimed. I dropped to my knees and started to cry. It was meant to scare me—a warning. The noose did not hesitate to claim my brother it would not hesitate to claim me. Erik wouldn't hesitate…_

_ Suddenly, he was standing right in front of me, kneeling down and helping me up. There was no malice in his eyes, no tricks. Regret? Remorse? _

The last thing I remember thinking before waking up short of breath was how I didn't understand why he was so gentle with me when a millisecond ago he'd filled me with terror; why he gave a damn when a millisecond ago he would've killed me without a second thought. Killing, saving. Insanity, humanity. Good, evil. These thoughts plagued my mind as I yanked a blanket around my shoulders and went out, seeking solace on the stairs between the first and second cellar, battling a simple yet loaded question that had presented itself long before these dreams—who is Erik?

* * *

I hadn't expected to see him that night and was therefore startled to hear his deep voice shatter my disturbing recollections.

"Grandest social event of the year, tomorrow…I'd hate for you to collapse from sheer exhaustion before it's even started."

It took me a moment to spot him, for he was standing opposite of where I'd thought I'd heard his voice, leaning against the wall of the second cellar stairwell.

"Why aren't you in bed?" He inquired almost paternally.

I sighed heavily. "Couldn't sleep. You?"

"I don't sleep."

"Insomniac?"

"My body is just…wired differently from most."

"Mmm. You must have the immune system of—,"

"A god?"

I smirked. "—or a fish. Barely eat, rarely sleep…"

It was his turn to smirk as he walked about languidly. "More nightmares?"

"What do _you_ know of it?"

"Ah, I'm all-seeing, all-knowing, remember."

"Hmmph. In the future, keep my bedroom problems out of your crystal ball."

He caught the innuendo and appeared shocked before remembering 'Oh right, this is vulgar Maggie Buquet speaking.'

"You know, you're really quite…"

"Obnoxious? Offensive? A kick in the pants?"

"Well, that's certainly one way to put it, but for lack of a better term…yes."

"So I've been told."

"You're quite different from most."

"Most girls."

"Most everyone."

"It's time we celebrated our differences."

"The point I'm trying to get across is that…you're a rather remarkable woman. And I don't give compliments lightly."

There he goes again—pulling the switch. _Why do you do that?_ Apparently, I'd voiced that last thought aloud for he looked at me quizzically.

"Do what?"

"Nothing…never mind." There was uncomfortable silence before I asked a question that had been chewing my mind since receiving the note yesterday.

"I don't mean to pry, but I have to ask…what's going to happen tomorrow night?"

"What do you mean?"

"In your note you said it would be an 'unforgettable evening.'"

The look he gave me…I couldn't discern between caution and guilt, like he'd been caught in the act. Just what that shameful act was I didn't yet know.

"Yes," he replied flatly, "I simply meant it will be an enjoyable affair."

"Nah, I don't buy that bollocks. I know you."

He cocked his head, amused. "Do you?"

"You're up to something."

"Oh I do wish you'd trust me." He mockingly implored.

"I'd sooner put my faith in a ghost." I retorted.

The corners of his mouth tugged upward into a strange small grin—almost as if he'd forgotten how to smile, really smile, and not out of spite or Phantom pranks. Then, it disappeared as quickly as it had come.

"You should get some sleep."

"I'm not tired."

His eyes flickered downward, pondering something. "Would—would you—possibly consider—joining me on a short walk?"

"…Alright."

* * *

Sometime later I was on the Opera's roof, my brother's charcoal gray long-coat draped over my nightdress. Erik stood a few feet away. The sky was clear and there was a receding blanket of snow on the ground from the previous morning.

"You ever notice how magical the night looks after fresh snow?"

He didn't reply—just stared out into the vast city. I continued to babble on.

"It's like we're one of those intricate snow globes. No matter where you are, no matter how the world may appear at the time, snow is a breath from God…or angels, crying tears of euphoria, filled with hope for peace and serenity; erasing all scars of the earth…giving it a fresh and flawless start."

I was almost lost in the tranquil peace the night granted me until my thoughts strayed and my tranquility plunged into familiar heartache…I frowned. _But with snow comes ice…there are always two opposing forces._

"Sometimes it feels like you're imprisoned in that snow globe. The water's closing around you and you can never catch that damned pocket of air before you drown…drowning in a world of winter."

I tore my eyes away from the stars to glance at Erik, who was watching me intently. I suddenly felt very self-conscious. "But what the hell do I know. I just sound like a little girl who believes in faeries and St. Nicholas." _I sound just like Christine._ "Beliefs that get you nowhere in life but the gutter."

"Why do you insist on degrading yourself so much?"

"Why do you?"

"That's not what I asked. There's so much more to you than meets the eye, like a complex puzzle or some sort of paradox, and I…well, being a man who needs to know what makes everything tick, I typically don't like what I can't understand but—,"

"No one does"

"—_but_ you're a rare exception. Maybe it's alright I don't have you all figured out."

Back to Mr. Nice Guy, eh? "Glad to know I have your stamp of approval." I joked.

The conversation dwindled after that, both of us fishing for something to talk about. I said the first (perhaps unintelligible) thing that crossed my mind.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow night?"

"No. Why?"

I shrugged. "'Just wondered if you were having second thoughts about Christine going with that other bloke." I swear ever muscle in his body locked up and he turned away.

"Why do you always go one step too far? You could be such a bearable companion if it wasn't for that mouth."

"Obviously, I struck a nerve. It was a simple question."

"Well, here's another," he rounded on me, "What the hell is it you're hiding that you're too scared to sleep at night?"

"How would you know whether--,"

"I know something's going on inside that vexing mind of yours, something you strive to repress from the public eye but have not succeeded. You're practically an insomniac, don't deny it."

" 'Could say the same thing 'bout you! The way you eat and sleep, I don't see how you're still standing!"

"It's my lifestyle—one I've been accustomed to since childhood and have had plenty of practice in. Somehow, I suspect that is not the case for you. So what's the story?"

"None of yer damn business is what it is!"

"Christ, you're a stubborn old cow. No wonder you're a spinster, you're utterly impossible!"

"Oh you're hardly a walk on the beach, _Monsieur._ Everything has to be perfect, no such thing as mistakes. Everyone's inferior to _you_, everything has to belong to _you, _everything has to go _your _way! Oh yes, I can see how you'd be so much easier to live with!"

Somewhere in the midst of our banter, my accent grew thick and strong like it always did when I lost my temper.

"Vindictive harpie!"

"Eat my soul, ye stubborn-ass brat!"

Shocked silence hung in the air and then…I cracked up, laughing.

"What could possibly be so amusing?"

"Us!" I choked out. "Do you realize how ridiculous we are?"

My laughter died down, though I continued to smile and could feel the tension in the atmosphere dissipate. "Listen to us. We sound like an old married couple at each other's throats all the time."

He gave me a funny look and I cleared my throat, turning my attention back to the city landscape. "Well, I'm feeling a little tired. I think I'll go back to bed."

I paused inside the doorway, realizing he didn't follow. When I turned back to ask if he was coming he beat me to it.

"Go ahead. I'm going to remain out here, awhile."

"I'll see you at the ball tomorrow?" He nodded. "Goodnight Erik."

I thought I heard a small gasp emit from him. Had I never said his name before? Before I closed the door behind me I thought I caught a "good night" in return but wasn't sure. I had no more nightmares that night.

* * *

It was late afternoon and everyone was in a fine frenzy. The masquerade was only hours away and everybody was rushing about with last minute decisions and revisions. I made sure I wasn't needed before I snuck down to my room to put some things away before meeting Edel. I was met with a surprise. A yellow rose in full bloom, fixed carefully through the keyhole. If I recall correctly, yellow roses conveyed warmth and friendship.

There was no note or any hint as to who could've left it. Jacques didn't seem the type and it was difficult to picture practical Erik as a romantic. Still, the sweet thought that someone had left it for me, added with the suspense over my mystery costume, made me feel elated. After placing the rose in my water pitcher, I crept back upstairs, taking care that no one saw me, and slipped out of the Opera.

"Edel, you look magnificent!" I greeted her.

Edel's costume was 17th-18th century pirate. I used to hear stories back home of infamous female pirates—Anne Bonny, Grace O'Malley…Edel made a very convincing rogue.

"Wait until you see _your_ costume, you'll just die!" Chockfull of energy and mounting suspense, we raced upstairs. She threw open the door, shouting "Voila!"

My hands immediately flew to my mouth as I gasped loudly. There, on a mannequin in the middle of the room, stood my gown. I barely recognized it as Edel had predicted. I caressed the fabric, still in awe that _this_ was _my _dress.

"So, what do you think?"

"Oh, Edel…I'm really at a loss for words. It's so beautiful!"

"That'll do. I'm pleased you like it."

"How ever did you manage to accomplish this on such short notice?"

Her mouth curved into that fabulously sly smile as she wiggled her fingers. "Magic hands."

I rushed over to her and (not usually being a very huggable person) took her hands in mine, squeezing them in grateful thanks. "Thank you, Edel."

She squeezed back and leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. "You are welcome. Come now, off with that cap and those clothes. We have much work to do and such precious little time to do it."

**A/N: Alright my lovelies. I absolutely swear to God, next chapter is Masquerade. The mystery costume will be revealed as well as some other little surprises…hee hee hee.**


	30. Dancing with Death

**Author note: Forgive my long absence. There's been so much going on, some good, some not so good and this story became 2****nd**** priority…or 3****rd**** or 4****th****. But on the bright side of life, I've got a kickin' head start on the next couple chapters, so hopefully I'll be updating like crazy. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Erik…between the hours of 6am-9pm. **

"_Devastation does not discriminate."-Katie Ford, __**Colosseum**_

I was nervous. My lungs were constricting…or else being fused together by the ridiculous corset Edel insisted I wear. She came through the front doors like every other guest outside the opera company. I decided to come via the back entrance. Edel looked at me funny but said nothing. Now, I hid in a secluded corridor outside one of the box seats—box five, now that I think about it—peering out over the balustrade at the people below. Edel came upstairs in search of me, catching my still-cloaked figure in the dim light.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like my heart's gonna drop out my arse."

She laughed. "Try to keep your wily tongue in check when you're being swept around the dance floor."

"Ha! Me, dance?"

"That is usually what happens at balls." I didn't respond and she sighed at my tortured expression. "You'll have to face them, eventually. The longer you wait, the harder it will be."

"Edel," I took a deep breath (as deep as I could manage), "I'm terrified."

"Of what?"

"Of being recognized…falling out of this damn dress…making a fool of myself…the possibilities are endless."

She took my hands in hers. "None of which will happen. Come on, now, chickpea. Show me I didn't pour my sweat and blood over nothing."

Of course, how thoughtless of me. Edel's done so much for me, as have Meg and Christine, to prepare me for this night. I nodded in submission, taking my time to untie and remove the cloak. Edel took it from me and headed back down the stairs.

"You'll be dazzling, Maggie. You always are."

As I plucked up the courage to come out of hiding, I noticed all had suddenly gone so quiet—the music, the mindless chatter. I followed the gawking faces to the landing of the Grand Staircase where a towering figure, clad in scarlet, stood, glaring. He bore the face of Death. Some bold fellow attempted to reach out and touch him. The specter stepped back.

"Do not touch me! I am Red Death, Stalking abroad!"

I gasped when I immediately recognized the voice. I pin-pointed Christine's black costume in the crowd. Apparently, she recognized Erik as well. The bloke who dared to touch him laughed merrily and made a second attempt. This time, Erik was not so…polite. I didn't have a clear visual, but I heard the poor fool cry out in pain before Erik spotted something in the throng of onlookers. Christine-standing awfully close to her Vicomte. His hold on her was anything but brotherly as Christine had claimed before Erik. Erik didn't make his way over to them—at first—but he did make sure to keep Christine in his line of vision. Shaking my head at his objectionable but expected behavior, I prayed tonight wouldn't end in disaster.

The music started up again, shaking me out of my reverie. I waited until the atmosphere seemed relaxed and jovial again, then, took a last deep breath before taking the plunge into the eddy of amalgamative colors.

Although my entrance probably wasn't as dramatic as Erik's, it still received rapt attention. Edel covered every possible detail of the costume and her work did not go unappreciated. The layers upon layers of revolting lace had been stripped away—as well as most of the bottom half—leaving a thin but flowing black satin skirt with a black veil attached as a train—Edel's addition. The bodice was mostly corseted with a small fraction of material covering what would be considered a racy show of cleavage, and off the shoulder straps sporting feathers that faded from light gray to black with elbow-length mesh gloves, decorated with black velvet spirals and leaves. Edel and I had a slight disagreement over the corset. The bottom half that met the skirt was mesh, therefore leaving my abdomen fairly visible. The waistline trim of the skirt was again adorned with ebony feathers.

The mask was almost more remarkable than the gown. It extended from the eyes over the cheek bones as well as over the brow and rose up like strange black wings, outlining the exposed portion of the forehead in a unique pattern. The bridge of the nose connecting the mask hardly looked like it was even there! It was made of a clear fine material and speckled with more black to appear as if it was actually welded onto my face. In short, my face looked like it was morphing into a raven. Erik, eat your heart out.

So many eyes were on me as waltzing couples strained to place this new mystery girl. I didn't know whether to be unnerved by this or flattered. The only eyes I sought had not yet focused on me as they were leaning against a back wall, already zoned in on Christine. I watched from the landing as he finally followed the murmurs and stares. Once those flaming orbs fixed on me, they never strayed. My stomach somersaulted briefly before being overcome with a strange sense of relief, relief that I wouldn't have to face this high-and-mighty crowd alone.

'_Okay_,' my thoughts were racing, '_chin up, back straight…and for god sake smile_. _Look like you actually belong here.' _As I descended, my main goal was to get to my escort. I didn't dare make eye contact with anyone else for fear my façade of confidence would crumble. Erik met me halfway, moving as if he were caught in a magnetic pull.

He bowed formally, "Mademoiselle."

I tried to curtsy like I'd seen other well-bred ladies do. "Monsieur." I grinned. "I can't believe it. Here, I thought I'd never be forced into the confines of a corset and Edel's got me wearing one!"

I didn't realize how loudly I'd spoken until I heard a gasp and glanced over to see a lady and her husband conversing nearby, eyes darting between Erik and me. My hand flew to my mouth in embarrassment.

"But I probably shouldn't have said that."

He gave a slight nod but was smiling. "You look…enchanting."

God…I'd never given it much thought before but I found that I rather liked his odd smile. It was almost devilish, the way the right corner raised up as if it were holding back some great secret. It wasn't something he did often and so I felt privileged to see it.

"Thank you. You look rather dashing yourself—wickedly so." I received more stares as my accent slipped. I closed my eyes to shut them out. "I'm sorry." I began to fidget with my gloves. "I don't really know what I'm supposed to say in polite society. I've spent most of my life avoiding it."

He stilled my restless hands and I tried to relax. "Don't worry, you'll be fine."

I furtively glanced around and saw Christine with Meg. Meg was openly gawking at me while Christine refused to make eye contact. I think it was because Erik was standing by me.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Alright."

As soon as he left my side I felt utterly exposed and anxious again, though I tried not to show it. In Erik's absence I was approached by several men and their dates, curious about my identity. Some men asked me to dance, to which, I politely declined. Christine and Meg made their way over. I could tell Meg had wasted no time locating the punch bowl—she was rosy and in the midst of a giggle fit.

"Maggie, you look positively beguiling!"

"Meg!" Christine reprimanded, finding the term inappropriate.

"Well, she does!"

Christine ignored her. "You're absolutely radiant, Maggie."

"Thank you, but I don't hold a candle to you."

"Pish-posh! I bet you'll give Christine a run for her money, tonight. I even caught the Vicomte stealing a glimpse or two."

"Margaret Giry!" Christine warned.

"Oh, I'm unbelievably parched. I think I'll go for another round of punch." And Meg hurried off to escape her friend's wrath.

"You'd better keep an eye on her, this evening."

She smiled and then turned serious. "Where's Erik?"

I came crashing down from my jovial high. "Last I knew he was getting me a drink."

"Is—how is he?"

"He's fine. Are you worried?"

She nodded, ringlets bouncing. "A little. I feel awful, Maggie—for being here with Raoul instead of him. I think it really hurt him. I just don't know what to expect anymore, he's so hard to predict."

I placed a comforting hand on her arm. "He'll survive. He won't do anything, he promised. And if he forgets…I'll remind him."

"Don't be so sure, Maggie. You know his temper."

"Hellloo!" I gestured to my costume, "I'm a bloody goddess, literally. I can do whatever I want. Don't worry," I winked, "I'll keep him busy."

Before darting off to rejoin her Vicomte, she made me promise to explain the story behind my costume and of the goddess it represented.

"And how is mademoiselle Daae this evening?"

Startled, I spun around to find Erik a few paces away, a glass of champagne in hand. He was focused on Christine, however.

"I think you're making her nervous, lay off."

His attention returned to me, somewhat taken aback at my haughty tone. He handed me the drink, which I downed in two swallows. He smirked.

"It seems she's not the only one."

"I, sir, am an endangered species, torn from its original environment and placed in another. Wouldn't you be?"

"Point taken."

We both stood there, surveying the scene. Erik turned to me suddenly and held out a scarlet-clad hand. "Would you care to?"

Dumbfounded, I stared at the proffered hand as if it would bite and then at the colorful pinwheel of intoxicated dancers. I shook my head.

"Are you crazy? I can't do that kind of danci-," I cut off when Erik grasped my hand anyway and tugged me onto the dance floor. Placing my hands in their proper positions, and his around my waist, he held my petrified gaze with his warm encouraging one.

"Dance with me, Maggie."

I froze, completely paralyzed in shock and ecstasy the second my name passed his lips. How I wanted to hear him say it again. I couldn't recall if he'd ever called me by my Christian name before. It was always, _"Buquet," "girl," "Jezebel," _or _"wench," _and other such cold labels. As if I was just a 'thing' and nothing more; not worth the trouble. I didn't realize we'd already started dancing. I stared down at our feet.

"I don't know if I can—," again, I was stopped short when I felt a gloved finger lift my chin.

"Look up, not down at your feet, and follow me."

"Don't I always?" I smirked.

"You follow a man's lead?" he teased.

"Depends on the man."

We danced silently, oblivious to other bodies waltzing around us. Our eyes locked unwaveringly on each other. So swallowed up I was in those amber orbs that I failed to notice our bodies closing in until a racing heart—not belonging to me—alerted me to the situation. Before I could contemplate this any further, Erik broke the silence.

"I believe the old custom during a dance was to strike up polite conversation."

"Oh, wouldn't you just love to see me try."

He grinned. "Yes, in fact, it would amuse me immensely."

"Such a flatterer. Well, I don't know what all falls under "polite" conversation—other than the weather."

"Tell me about your costume. Judging by that pendant you're wearing, it has some Celtic references."

I nodded, fingering the coiled metal of the Celtic knot. "It was a birthday present, some years ago. Joseph bought for me at a county fair."

The moment I mentioned Joseph, I wished I hadn't. What kill-joy topic to bring into "polite conversation." Although, I attempted to appear unaffected, I couldn't fool Erik. There was awkward silence before he picked up from where we'd left off.

"I've never seen you wear it."

"You may have noticed I'm not crazy for jewelry. I only wear this on special occasions."

The discomfort from my earlier statement still hung around us, killing the mood. Erik took note of this and slowed to a stand-still.

"Perhaps you would like to get some air?"

"I would, indeed."

The blast of January air was a welcome companion after being cocooned in that stuffy overcrowded ballroom. The stars—oh, faithful stars—were out. Polished diamond rings, illuminating slush-filled streets…the only remnants of yesterday's snow.

"You still think about it." Confused, I waited for specification. "Joseph. You miss him a great deal, don't you?"

Angling my face to hide threatening tears, I bitterly replied, "Of course, I do. He's—_was_—my brother."

"I suppose…I suppose to apologize would be futile."

Stunned, I faced him. He wasn't looking at me but rather at the open doors into the foyer. "The ghost has a conscience after all."

What new game was this? A man who kills, then offers condolences to kin of the deceased? My heart and my head screamed two different things, snagging and tearing through brambles of opposing emotions. Oh, how I wished I could believe him…forgive him. But how does one forgive a murder, much less a murderer who claims one of your own? He didn't kill just my brother, but a friend; a guide; a savior. And in killing him, he also, in a sense, killed my mother, my father, and little Kessy…he killed a little bit of me.

I don't think Erik quite understood at the time that when he took Joseph's life, he took a piece of mine along with it. Before we met, that probably mattered little to him. Knowing me as he does now…I wondered if he really did feel differently. Who was this new man? I didn't know him.

"I _suppose_ an apology wouldn't hurt, but it won't change anything. He had a family, Erik. He had a mother, a father; he had little sisters who looked up to him, and a—and people who loved him, believe it or not."

He hung his head. "What if…what if I told you…"

"What?" He didn't respond and I wondered if he heard me but the, he shook whatever the thought was out of his head.

"Never mind."

Again, we took to watching the dancers. I couldn't help but notice how I still didn't fit in with them, despite my efforts.

"I don't look like them."

"No—you look better."

I rolled my eyes. "You know what I mean. All my life, I've found myself standing miles and millennia away from the in-crowd. At first, it was simply due to lack of pedigree as well as lack of interest. Then, it was by choice. I suppose there was a time I wouldn't have minded eating with the upper-crust, but I sure as hell don't recall when. Now, I just kick dust at their feet. I'm tired of fighting to be different."

"Why do you try to fit in when you were obviously born to stand out?" Erik countered. His bewildering remark certainly shut me up.

It was at that point I began to recognize how crucial my appearance was becoming to me. Two years ago, even two **weeks** ago, I could've cared less. Erik helped remind me of that. Ugh. Since when did I turn into such a prissy sissy?

"How much do you know about the Morrigan?" I picked up the conversation.

"I can't say I've ever heard of it."

"In Irish lore, the Morrigan was believed to be the deity of war and battle, sovereignty, and keeper of death. She was referred to as the 'Phantom Queen.'"

Erik smirked. "My soul mate."

"She was also said to be a triple goddess and would often be seen in a battlefield as a raven or crow."

"Busy woman…with quite a morbid occupation."

I nodded. "She wasn't a huge fan of mercy, either."

Erik leaned against a pillar, then, eyes cast downward, pensive. I guess I didn't realize the similarities between the sinister goddess and Erik, and therefore, didn't take into account the affect the legend would have on him. Hesitantly, afraid he might lash out like he did with the fool who tried touching him; I placed my fingertips on his arm. His head abruptly turned but nothing more. He just watched my hand, judging whether or not this was a comfort or an invasion of space before repositioning himself so that he faced the crowd inside.

"It didn't make her a monster," I reasoned, "she was just dealt a shitty hand, was all."

"No one mourns the wicked."

"I don't think that's entirely true. _She_ did."

"And what tragic fate awaited her?"

I gave a small smile. Erik knew well there were no happy endings for these kinds of stories. "What usually happens to heroes, villains, and ever other poor sucker on the face of the earth—she fell in love, with a warrior called Cuchulainn…"

But Erik wasn't paying attention to me, anymore. He was fixated on something in the foyer. I caught a fleeting glimpse of Christine's black gown as she hastened upstairs and disappeared around a corner with the Vicomte in tow. Erik straightened and walked back into the throng.

"Erik…" I warned.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle." He didn't even look at me.

I watched him follow after Christine as I stood there, completely alone in this alien atmosphere, insecure, and no longer needed. Feeling used, I brushed past clowns and fairies, wanting nothing more than to get away from this, get away from it all.

Out in a deserted hall, I tried to get a grip on this new collage of feelings I was experiencing. I was angry, confused, lonely, an outcast. I felt like a pair of old shoes—familiar, trusty old shoes that—despite their comfort—are tossed aside for a pair of shiny new ones. Hell, was I jealous? Ridiculous! But my heart confirmed that indeed that's what it was—jealousy. I was envious of Christine in many ways: for being ethereally beautiful, for being steadfast in kindness and patience, thoughtful and unbelievably talented—one of a kind. Why should this bother me? It never did before. It was then that I realized that I had always been jealous. The loathing I felt for anyone who had more than I ever had was pent up, black envy. Not green with envy, _black_ with it—black and blue as it tore and beat me up inside.

I didn't have any valuable womanly attributes, no God-given talents. I didn't have any status or family fortune. Who would want a woman like that? No one. There was one thing Christine Daae held in her possession that I was most jealous of: Erik. I now recognized I was attracted to him a great deal. I understood him better than anyone else could. But he would never think of me in that way, never look at me the way he looks at Christine. Our roles were changing. Erik was on the pedestal and I was becoming the loyal dog, futilely trailing after its master.

"God, what is the deal?" I asked aloud, childishly kicking a wall. I felt like a lost little girl and absolutely hated it. I sat on the floor, skirts fanning out around me, and pouted.

"This is downright ballsch*."

**A/N: There ya are. Next chapter is being typed up as we speak. Told you guys you wouldn't have to wait long. **

***ballsch-**_**rubbish; crap. **_


	31. The Ugly Truth

**A/N: Thank you all so much for your reviews! Knowing you're still out there, waiting patiently for my overdue updates, keeps this story alive. As promised, you didn't have to wait as long for this one, I do apologize for it being rather short. Have a head start into the next chapter, though. Bon Appétit! **

"_You who ridicule the poor, the grieving, the lost, the fallen, the inarticulate, the wounded children in grown-up bodies: May you look into each face, and see a mirror. May all your cleverness fall into the abyss of your speechless grief, your secret hunger; May you look into that black hole with no name and find…the most tender touch in the darkest night, the hand that reaches out. May you take that hand. May you walk all your circles home at last, and coming home, know where you are."—Morrigan. __.__._

I decided I'd calmed down enough to go rejoin the masses. Erik hadn't returned yet, but I didn't have to wait long. Christine came trotting down the stairs with the Vicomte right behind her, a look of sheer panic etched on her pale features. I watched as she and the Vicomte exchanged a few hurried words before Christine pushed him towards the exit where I was still standing. He left, then Christine spotted me and seemed relieved.

"Christine, what's wrong?"

"Erik's been following us. I had to talk to Raoul, privately. We hid in a private box. When we came out I saw Erik coming our way, so I raced back here before there was an unpleasant scene." She wrung her hands in frustration. "He promised to leave me alone! He doesn't trust me."

"I have to say, you don't give him much cause to."

Christine looked fit to break down in a waterfall of tears, so I softened my tone and told her she ought to just go home and get some rest. She didn't really want to go home however, but compromised by choosing to go lay down in her dressing room for awhile. No sooner had she decided this when Erik came gliding down the stairs, searching the crowd in a furious frenzy. Once he spotted Christine with me near the exit he picked up speed, determined to reach her before she disappeared again. I smelled a confrontation and tried to buy her some time.

"I'll stall him as long as I can. Go through the exit and come back around through an employee entrance or something. Stay in your dressing room."

"Maggie, No! I can't let—,"

"Go on!" I shouted, practically shoving her outside. Quickly moving away from the doors, Erik followed me. I didn't stop until I almost reached the Grand Stairs when I was grabbed by the arm and jerked back. Already peeved, I spun around to face a very irritated Red Death.

"What is going on? What did you tell her?"

"None of your business."

"Be careful, mademoiselle. My patience is waning."

"And mine reached its max long ago. Dammit, Erik! You promised to leave her alone, you promised not to do anything stupid."

"Promises are for fools."

"I guess that makes you one, then."

The look in his eyes was positively venomous and I knew we were back to the tug-of-war phase in our relationship.

"Where is she?"

"Just leave her alone for one day in her bloody life!" He moved in front of me, blocking my escape. "I'm in no mood for your games." I hissed.

"You detect me in a playful mood?"

"I detect an abrupt end to this conversation. Now, get out of my way."

"You try my patience!"

"No, you try mine—you'll last longer."

I feebly attempted stepping around him, but he didn't budge. I suppose I could've just shoved or groined him, but the last thing I needed was to cause a scene.

"Don't push me, woman. You, more than anyone, know better than to test me."

"Ohhh…shut up! I'm sick to death of yer ridiculous threats. You're so full of shite!"

I hardly noticed the few bystanders starting to whisper and stare. I was incredibly miffed and wanted nothing more at that moment than to get far away from Erik before I said something deplorable. Again, he made a grab for me, gripping my wrist so tight I was sure it would leave a mark.

"Let go."

"You little chit, tell me where she is," he growled, "I need to talk to her."

"She doesn't _want _to talk to you. Get it through you're thick skull!"

Infuriated, he released my wrist and turned to leave, not before muttering, "I knew it was a mistake bringing you, tonight."

"Why, because I won't let you get your way? How childish, how typically _Erik._"

I'm not the one hiding behind a ridiculous façade of oversized trousers and testosterone, because I'm too cynical and afraid of what people think—,"

"—Says the man in the mask. You're one to talk."

"They know what I am," he jerked his head towards the throng of opera members, "_I _know what I am, I don't pretend otherwise."

"Stop justifying yourself." We'd crossed the floor, leaving a ripple of stares and whispers in our wake. "You're the one cowering in dark corners judging everyone else because it makes _you_ feel better!"

"Oh, I hardly think I'm alone in that!"

"This isn't about me. _I_ know what _I _am, and I'm not ashamed of it."

"Yes, you put on a fine show, sauntering in here with your swaggering superiority and fancy street tricks! Queen of the world and an authority on what makes it tick."

"What a load of horseshi—,"

"I'll tell you what I see—an ignorant, cocky, prejudiced little brat, with no direction in life, and no desire to seek one; afraid to face her past, frightened to death of her uncertain future…even too scared to sleep on your own at night without big brother to protect you. Who is the real child, here?" Erik sneered before turning away. It's been a rare occurrence to let my resolve fall victim to another's opinion of me. But it did, now. My pride was wounded.

"Prejudiced? Afraid? So what if I'm not a huge fan of cruising down memory lane? Wouldn't you say some these terms apply to you as well?"

"I face every fear, every ugly memory head-on, whether I want to or not. Images quite beyond your imagination."

"Yeah, poor you. You're the only one in this entire world who's had it rough."

"You're still just a child, what could you possibly consider to be "rough"—going a full day in a corset?"

"How about working for the man that killed your brother?"

"If I recall, there were no qualms on your part when I bought your loyalty as my henchman."

I gasped at his ruthless attack. Dirty son of a bitch. He leaned in close, inches from my face and cut me off before I could even think to spit the curse at him.

"I offered you protection, employment…money. Face it—you sold out, betrayed and kissed your 'savior' good-bye for a few measly coins."

Injured beyond words, my hand rose to strike him, but he anticipated it and caught my wrist before it brushed his mask.

"You've witnessed a death. However, I have quite a head start in that category."

"You have no idea the things I've witnessed in my life!" I cried. He thrust my hand back down to my side.

"And you will _never_ have any idea what I've witnessed in mine! I haven't had that many pleasantries in the outside world due to the face God so graciously granted me. Be grateful, little girl, that you'll never know the burden of wearing a mask."

Still shot down from his earlier accusation, the spark behind my rage had dampened somewhat, ashing into exasperation and a throbbing ache somewhere in my gut.

"No. No, with my _perfectly sculpted _features, I'll never need a mask. And it's so much _easier_ facing the world without one, is it?"

I will not cry in front of him, I will not cry, I will not cry…but I couldn't fight the tide much longer. So, I swept past him, facing away so he wouldn't chide me for being a crybaby, hiked up my skirt and ran. I kept on running until I ended up on the rooftop: my only escape from the stuffy, melodramatic world of opera…my throne on top of the world. On top of the world…Erik's words drummed over and over I my head. Prejudiced, running from life and all the people in it.

But really, what made him any different from me? I couldn't imagine how painfully hard it must be, infinitely trapped behind a mask. Yet, I don't think he could imagine facing the world with nothing more than a perfected poker face would be any easier. I was the wild child—spoke my mind. What did I know about keeping a stoic or blasé face? I did know it was necessary when facing your nemesis in the midst of battle; I knew it was preferred when being questioned by the gendarmes; it was essential when lying to Christine, Meg, Jacques, and countless others; And I knew it was required during a funeral. Indeed, I'd had a score of opportunities in my lifetime to walk empty-handed and emotionless amongst mine enemies: starvation, authorities, society, death…and Russians. _'Prejudice.' 'Scared.'_ A simpering child at heart, really—terrified, and this disgusted me. Weakness disgusted me. I growled and kicked a clump of snow.

The tears Erik had inspired were forced back and swallowed down again. I didn't cry. I was too angry to cry. Besides crying was just another weakness I detested. It was something I did more of since Jo's death. I'd never been so sickeningly emotional in all my life. '_Just a scared little brat.' _Damn Erik. Damn him, because I knew he was right.


	32. Phantoms and Alcohol Don't Mix

_May you be emptied out, may your heart break not in half, but wide open in a thousand places, and may the waters of the world pour from each crevice, washing you clean._

_-The Morrigan, __._

Not a fan of being in the wrong, I decided not to let Erik trash my whole evening and joined the other Opera employees at a party in the lower class, where I belonged. Screw Erik. He doesn't understand anything.

I was on top of the world. Music, loud, obnoxious and fast, surged through the small cramped room, making bones rattle. It felt wonderful to be dancing to reels and jigs again…skirts hiked up, loose curls clinging to my sweaty face, folks whistling to show admiration and clapping along for encouragement—how very unladylike. Excellent. I never wanted to be one, anyway. Screw Erik.

The reel ended with me toppling off the table I'd been dancing on top of. People applauded and cheered, some one handed me a drink. How many have I had, now? Blackcap—who had handed me the drink—asked me the same thing.

"Just how steamboated* are you, Maggie?"

I smiled. "Enough to be funny. In a bit I'll be drunk enough _not _to be funny."

He laughed heartily, as did I until I snorted, which sent him howling. "You're one hell of a gal."

I couldn't believe how well everything had turned out. By midnight, everyone-upstairs and down- had removed their masks to reveal their true identity. After the ugly events with Erik (and two or three shots of whiskey) I laughed at the ironic thought of revealing _my _true identity. What real reason did I have for hiding it any longer? None. No more poker face, no more lies. How exhausting this whole act had been. So, I did it. I'd informed Jacques beforehand and he stood by my side through the entire confession. Needless to say, everyone was certainly dumbstruck, but the shock wore off quickly and we all had a good laugh about it. They treated me no different just because I was a girl. The thought had me grinning like a fool and I slid off the stool I'd taken up next to Black Cap, fully intent on keeping the festivities going.

"Come on, Ol' Salty dog! Play me another!" Old Salty nodded amusedly and he and his fellow musicians struck up _St. Anne's Reel. _

"Woo hoo! That's the ticket! That's the cherry on the sundae, that is!"

I stumbled into a few improvised steps but discovered my brain power was wearing down as I staggered into a couple kissing in a corner. "Beg yer pardon," I drawled. Someone took me gently by the arm.

"You're the first woman I know to succeed in being belle of the ball twice in one night."

"Edel?...Edel! What are youuu doing here? You shouldn't be down here." I wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"It's a good thing I am. Here, Jacques, give me a hand." She nodded to Jacques who took the arm lounging on Edel's shoulder.

"Alright, I think it's time to go to bed and watch the eyelid circus."

"Awwwe, don't be a spoil-sport Jacques." I brought my face close to his. "We are young and BURNING with life!"

Jacques wrinkled his nose. "Right now, your breath is burning—with alcohol. Let's go."

"Good night and joy be with ye all!" With a stupid smile plastered on my face I leaned towards Black Cap on the way out. "You know, you're all the best friends a girl could have."

Jacques tugged on my arm. "Come on, Mags." I let him and Edel practically drag me out, one on either side, supporting my weight. I leaned my head on Jacques's shoulder. "You're rather adorable when you try to be bossy." I laughed.

He smiled but said nothing, focused on keeping me upright. What fine friends, indeed…loyal, accepting, non-judgmental friends. Did I mention, screw Erik?

It felt like we'd walked forever, but that must've been the liquor weighing down my legs, turning them to jelly. "Really mates, I'm good to go another round!" I assured.

"All good things must come to an end. You've more than enough of the good stuff." Edel scolded.

"Nonsense, woman!" I stopped and squinted at her as if I just then recognized her. "You left me."

"What?"

"That's right, YOU left me. If you hadn't, I wouldn't be so goddamn sloshed as I am right now. Thanks a heap!"

"I'll take her from here." Jacques murmured, prodding me along.

"I'll not be taken from anywhere! You two…you're in this together! The whole bloomin' Opera's against me! Damn French—,"

"Are you sure?"

"Fed me to the wolves, leaving me in a mob like that, you did—,"

"Quite. Thanks, Edel. Bonne nuit."

"Bonne nuit, Jacques."

"Yes, BONNE NEW-EET! Why can't you crazy bastards just say it the way it's spelled out? For godsake, just say what you mean! It's no wonder half the world can't understand a word you're sayin'…romantic language my—,"

Edel must've been long out of earshot by then, but that didn't cease my ramblings, even after Jacques nudged me through the door leading to the cellars.

The party was close to the cellars, so in reality, we didn't have to go very far, thankfully. Jacques was helping me down some stairs when I began babbling again about things I wish I'd left alone.

"You and Jo were great pals, weren't ya? Bloody boon companions!"

"That, we were."

"You two must've shared a lot of things—,"

"Just about everything."

"—Your dreams, your goals…your clothes, obviously…your deepest darkest secrets…"

"Yes."

"So, what was his?"

Silence.

"Awe, come now, Jacques. Who am I honestly going to tell? Better yet, why would it matter? He's dead, ain't he?"

"Stop it, Maggie." Jacques shook me slightly, tightening his grip on my arm.

I pushed his hand away, momentarily losing my balance before he caught me again.

"You think I don't see it? The faces people make when I bring up his name? Christ, Jacques, I didn't paddle up the English Channel in a paper boat! I know somethin's bein' kept from me."

He gave a weary sigh. "You're drunk. The sooner we get you to bed, the better…for both of us."

"You're not goin' to tell me, are ya?" I laughed.

"There's nothing to tell. It's all in your head, Magpie."

"Don't call me that!" Again I violently shoved him away and he stumbled down the last two steps. "Only Jo calls me that!"

"Like you said, Mags, He's. Not. Here. Though, the sight of you right now probably has him turning in his grave."

I stood stalk-still, stunned that Jacques—sweet, thoughtful Jacques—had lost his temper with me. Jacques rarely, if ever, lashed out at anyone in anger. Was I truly that much of a mess? Ashamed at the thought of bringing out the worst in Jacques, as well as humbled by his words, I didn't put up a fight as he quietly led me to bed.

It was absolute hell removing that costume and all the makeup! I was determined to undo the corset myself, but had a devil of a time with the damned laces and clasps that I finally entrusted the task to Jacques, who turned his head once it was undone until I pulled on my nightdress. Looking at my reflection in a small hand mirror I "borrowed" from the prop table for Faust, I could see my face was pink from scrubbing away remnants of the feathered mask. Edel's scarlet lip paint had been rubbed away into a faint ruby tint. I collapsed on the bed, feeling like lead, my mind had gone rather fuzzy.

"What time is it?" I yawned as Jacques pulled me up in order to draw back the covers. I flopped back down and Jacques tucked me in.

"Don't know. Two—maybe half past."

"Jesus."

"Exactly. Good night, Maggie." He turned to leave. I watched him, lazily.

"Aren't you going to ask what the hell happened tonight? I'm sure you're dyin' to know."

He sighed and turned around. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"I want to. It's quite the classic fairytale, really. A disfavored, aimless girl put on a fancy dress, walked into a palace and danced with a prince…the key points to every faerie story, am I right?"

"How does it end?" Jacques asked calmly.

"The prince throws his arms around her," my arms flailed about in exaggerated emotion, "holds her close and says, MAGGIE, YOU WICKED, DARLING GIRL! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE? I CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT YOU!""

I then laughed so hard and so loud that Jacques came over to shush me. Once my raucous laughter subsided, so did my liquor-induced mirth. I soberly corrected my story.

"Oh, I'd never hear those words if I lived to be a hundred and one. No, here's how the story really ends: The prince danced with the poor foolish girl, but then a _real_ princess entered the scene, and the prince, naturally, fell in love with her."

Again, that wave of defeat and rejection washed over me and I rolled over onto my side, facing the wall.

"And what of the pitiable girl?"

"What about her?" I replied bitterly, "just a foolish inconsequential wretch playing dress-up, who wandered into the palace by mistake."

Jacques stood silently for a long moment before softly responding, "There's more to you than meets the eye, Maggie." The door clicked shut and the room was deathly quiet again. He had gone. I pondered his parting words briefly. _'What the hell did __**that **__mean?" _Too tired and too drunk to care, I let the thought float away into blissful sleep.

That night's nightmare was of me, skating on a frozen pond in front of dozens of people. I was beautiful, graceful, and skated and leaped as lightly as a faerie. Somehow, I was caught in a story and it seemed nothing else existed beyond this pond—like I was trapped in a snowglobe. I was a princess, in love with—some creature, I can't recall what it was, only that he wore the face of innocence and he loved me. Our dance showed us playing and laughing together, enjoying each other's company.

Suddenly, a large snake appeared out of nowhere, coiled in the middle of the pond. He had watched us from the sidelines and became captivated, even obsessed with me. The snake declared no one else could have me, I belonged to him alone. He warned me to stay away from the one I loved or I would never be free to skate and dance as I wished. Secretly, I would meet my love, despite the danger.

The snake found and appeared again in a jealous rage. He chased after me and managed to nip me on the leg. I fell in pain and watched, terrified, as the furious snake slithered over, bared his long thick fangs and sunk them into my stomach. I didn't die, even as he dragged me away with his fangs still lodged in my gut, but I could feel it. The pain was excruciating, so excruciating that it woke me up.

It took a foggy second to realize where I was before the stabbing pain attacked me again. I curled up, clutching my belly, which bore neither fangs nor blood upon close inspection, and moaned. The events of the night came flooding back and I remembered the culprits behind this agonizing stomachache. Erik and alcohol do not mix. I felt the sudden urge to vomit. Hastily, I threw off the covers and stood up—falling back onto the mattress as I did so. Fighting the overbearing dizziness I clambered back up and to the door. I spotted a mop bucket near the stairwell, promptly fell on my knees, leaned over it and retched. Screw Erik.

**A/N: Still alive and kickin' thanks for the wonderful reviews on my last chapter, that's like sunshine on my frickin' shoulders! **** Already one paragraph into the next chapter, hoping to get it out before classes start next week. **

***steamboated: drunk, intoxicated, trashed. **


	33. Fine Lines

_You cannot find knowledge by rearranging your ignorance. _

_There's hate and love and all the pretty words in between. _

I wasn't sure how long I'd lied there, crumpled up on the floor before I mustered the strength to pull myself to my feet. Fresh air sounded grand rather than decaying here, in the dank moldy cellars. So, I took step after shaky step, inching my way up the stairs, intent on getting outside. My vision rocked like a damn fishing-boat and I let my hand slide along the wall for support. I thought I could still hear a few voices and the clinking of glass, floating up from the foyer. The Bal Masque had long been over. Perhaps there were a few stragglers or kitchen staff cleaning up trays and champagne glasses. Whatever the explanation, I didn't really want anyone seeing me in this state. There was still a vast portion of the company that didn't know of my "deception" and I was certainly in no condition to give lengthy explanations if I were discovered. There was one place where I could be sure no one else would be loitering this time of night—the roof.

I was ten times more appreciative of the frigid January air after crawling up another wretched staircase. The city looked so still, so serene at…3?...4?...in the morning. I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, welcoming the chill against my skin. When I opened my eyes again, the buildings and statues were spinning and I suddenly found myself looking up rather than down. My backside felt very wet and numbingly colder than the rest of my body.

"Not exactly blessed with the gift of grace, are you?"

Unmoving, I sighed irritably. "If I close my eyes and wish really hard will you go away?"

"If you would get your shivering, Neanderthal carcass off the ground, I might consider it."

I must've looked something akin to a fish—or a sea lion—rolling and flopping my limbs around to pull myself up. Erik even looked ready to come to my aid until I scowled at him.

"Don't touch me or I'll show you _Red Death stalking abroad._" I put my hand on the statue of Apollo for support.

"Dare I ask why you're out here this time of night, in the dead of winter, in such a refined state?"

"Ask away, don't expect a short answer."

"Go back to bed, Maggie—inebriation doesn't become you."

"To hell with you!" I spat. "This is your fault; you drive a girl to drink." He didn't reply. "Why I bet a hundred francs Christine takes a swig or six on the sly, ever since she met you."

I realized it was a rather uncouth assumption when Erik's eyes turned dangerously bright with anger. "Touchy subject?" I ventured, fully aware I was treading on shaky ground.

"You'd better get inside before I do something I might regret."

I made some unladylike noise and laughed. "Regret? You? Aren't you just a walking paradox…" when he didn't answer again, I continued, full throttle. "Why so silent, good Monsieur? Something's brewing in that puerile brain of yours. You've never had a problem speaking honestly before."

I was vaguely aware that the sky was lightening to a dull unpromising gray and Erik was getting more restless and agitated with me. What did I care? All I knew at that moment was that I wanted to hurt Erik. I wanted him to hurt as I much as I did.

"Fine, don't answer me! Just go crawling back to Christine, you pitiful dog!"

I was suddenly seized by the shoulders and shoved back into the base of Apollo. Erik was seething with fury. Instead of being afraid, I relished in my moment of triumph—of degrading him.

"Go ahead, kill me! Take the easy way out. You always do." His grip loosened and after a pause, he stepped away, the look on his masked face, unreadable. I won.

"I have more _important_ matters to attend to." _I won…? _He turned away, heading for the door. My thoughts were so muddled. My head began to spin again, I was confused.

In a drunken stupor, I followed and cried out in girlish desperation, "She doesn't love you! She won't _ever _love you, so give up the chase!"

His reaction, unfortunately, was not the next thing I saw, but rather a face-full of slush-coated cement. And I just lied there, not bothering to get up, not wanting to see his reaction. I suppose any other girl would've cried out of pain or embarrassment or both. I was too exhausted to cry. Then, it was as if my body were floating and I was looking down from the sky only to be shifted over to look up into Erik's eyes.

"Why do you insist on being so obstinate?" He mumbled.

Still floating in a world in shades of gray and black, I believe the last thing I said was something along the lines of, "I'm going back to sleep for one hundred years. When I wake up, you should be gone."

When I opened my eyes again, I was back in my own bed. Erik was gone, but on the stand next to the bed were two white tablets, a glass of water, and a note.

_Take one now and one later if you wish to recover in a timely manner. Don't worry—I wouldn't dare try to poison you. _

_-E. _

Ugh, just the thought that he said it…"How thoughtful," I muttered, shocked at how ghastly my voice sounded. Dragging my heavier-than-lead body to the edge of the bed, I reached for the water and pill and downed them, washing away the foul taste in my mouth. No sooner had I when my door swung open, light flooding in. Jacques came in holding a bowl and a glass.

"Christ…don't you know how to knock?" I rasped.

"Good afternoon to you, too, sun beam."

"Afternoon?"

"Well, it's a little past noon, really. Figured you would be craving some rehydration at the least, but…" he eyed the tablet and empty glass on the nightstand, "I see somebody beat me to it." He glanced at the note. "E?"

"Um, yeah…Edel must've dropped by while I was knocked out." I explained quickly. I wasn't sure if he bought it.

The company had the day off as it was an unofficial tradition to have the day after the Bal Masque to recuperate. I took advantage of it by sleeping another couple of hours. The rest of the late afternoon I spent checking up on friends, Meg and Christine being last.

"Maggie!" Meg gasped, then smiled and yanked me through the door. How someone could be so unshakably perky after drinking themselves into oblivion the night before…it's inhuman.

"Awwe, it's such a shame seeing you back in that rag bag. You looked _so _breathtaking last night, it's unbelievable!"

I thanked her and asked how she was holding up. "Surprisingly well," she replied, "Although, I don't know if I can say the same for Christine. She's been shut up in her dressing room all day."

"What?"

"Yes…or so I assume. She disappeared so suddenly…I doubt she would've gone home without telling me, but I haven't seen her since last night."

That seemed a might strange. Without explanation, I excused myself and left the ballet dorms, Christine's room being my next destination. Christine hadn't been seen since last night…

_"Go through the exit and come back through an employee entrance. Go on!" _

Perhaps, she gone to her Mama Valerius—I remembered her mentioning the old invalid once or twice—or else…the only other option made my stomach drop and I picked up my pace.

"Christine?" I rapped on the door. No answer. The door was unlocked, so I let myself in. The room was dark and empty. I was just about to walk out when I noticed a black lump on the floor by the full-length mirror—Christine's mask. And then, I was sure of where she'd gone.

"Damn you, Erik."

Whatever Erik gave me in the early afternoon worked miracles physical-wise. Emotionally, I was still a wreck. To my chagrin, Jacques noticed. I was sitting at the Café De L'Opera glaring viciously into my coffee cup when he sat down across from me.

"If you say "penny for your thoughts" I'll melt your face with hot coffee."

"Hadn't even crossed my mind, but now that you mention it…" He was being light-hearted as always, but it gave my heavy heart no comfort. "I ran into Edel."

"Mmm, How is Edel?"

"Oh, fine—a little worried about you. Quite frankly, so am I."

"I'm surviving. It's not the first hangover-,"

"Who is 'E'?"

When he saw I wasn't going to answer, he added, "Don't use Edel as a cover. She was nowhere near the Opera today."

"I don't know, then. Clearly, assumed it was her." Jacques wasn't convinced.

"Don't you trust me?"

"What are you going on about?"

"There's something you're trying very hard to keep from me. I'm not as daft as you think."

"I have to go—stuff to do." I got up, leaving my unfinished coffee.

"Maggie, please—," I quickly scanned the tables to make sure no one heard my Christian name. There were still some that didn't know. "Please...if you need to talk, don't be afraid to come to me." I gave a dismissive nod and left.

The watch on the nightstand told me nothing of value except for how many minutes of my life had ticked away into oblivion. _If a clock could reach infinity…_

In all that time, I assessed the current nightmare. I'd not clearly seen my partner's face, but I felt comfortable with him; trusted him wholeheartedly. Perhaps it was Joseph or even Jacques. The snake, an easy guess…Erik, tearing us apart then continuing to drag me behind him, wounding me every step of the way. That's the only translation that made sense.

And then, my thoughts journeyed deeper. I thought of Erik. I thought of Jo and of Ma, Da, and Kessy…and of Danny. I thought of the pain and disappointment I brought to each and every one. And over each memory, every selfish incident…I couldn't remember ever being sorry. Of course, I had nothing to be sorry about when it came to Erik. As I said, I didn't know that I'd ever be able to forgive all the wrongs he'd done me, but I still couldn't find it in my heart to condemn him.

_** "Jo, out of all the ladies you've chased after in Maycullen…did'ja ever love any of 'em?" **_

_** "Stop askin' me stupid questions." **_

_** "Don't be snide with me, I just want to know." **_

_** "What do ya want to know for? You're only twelve!" **_

_** "I got to know what it's supposed to look like when the time comes…do you find it or does it find you?"**_

_** "Da used to say that "love is a lot like lightning. It will strike at random—it doesn't have a system." I haven't found anything like that in Maycullen. There was a girl, once…Jinny Mulligan." **_

_** "That blonde baboon? She looks like the wrong end of a cat, and couldn't count sheep to put her to sleep!"**_

_** "Ma would box your ears, hearin' ya talk like that. Jinny wasn't all that bad. There's more to her than meets the eye. In the end, though, it turned out to just be nothing but an infatuation on both our parts."**_

_** "What's that?" **_

_** "Something to be wary of. There's a fine line between love and infatuation, Magpie, and don't confuse the one with the other. Infatuation-difficult to explain. It's one of those "you had to have been there" moments. It's a feeling, different for every person, I suppose, just as love is. But it's not as strong or long-lasting as love." He sighed wearily. "I don't know—go ask Ma." **_

_** And so I did ask Ma. And wished I hadn't. **_

_** "Why, does my little sprite have her eye on someone in particular?"**_

_** "No, I was only curious. When I find it—will it be like the way you love Da?"**_

_** "Don't be ridiculous, Maggie! I didn't love your father when I married him."**_

_** "Then…then why did you marry him?"**_

_** "It was a good match in my parent's eyes, and I had to agree. I couldn't have done much better." **_

_** When she saw how crestfallen I'd become she changed her tone. "Over time, I came to appreciate and, yes, even love him. Mind you, there were times I wanted to ring his neck as I'm sure he did mine. But we kept each other grounded. You can't expect love to always be there in the beginning. Sometimes you must give it time to grow like anything else in this world. Otherwise, you may spend a sorry portion of your life, searching, when it was waiting for you all along."**_

_** She had wanted me to wait. Crochet my youth away at the window seat and wait…wait. But it wasn't in me to sit around and wait for answers. Patience was not a Buquet virtue. **_

And so, it occurred to me-this brewing feeling I have for Erik isn't anything close to love—how ridiculous I was in thinking so! This must be what Joseph was talking about. It's just an infatuation, nothing more. I felt slightly relieved coming to terms with that. This feeling was only temporary—a "squatter." It would pass. In the meantime, I would help him along in whatever way I could in his pursuit of Christine. That way, I could still be around him and practice this new care-free sensation to the point where I wouldn't think of him at all, anymore. He would get what he wanted, Christine would realize how much she really needed him in her life and I would learn to be happy for the bizarre couple and move on. End of story. I held more regard for him than the Vicomte, anyway.


	34. An Act of Contrition

**A/N: Oh my God! Christmas break = more writing time. **

"_She could not participate in great love, she could only report it."_

_-Nightwood_

It took ages to hunt down Madame Giry and convince her to open box five. I tried to get in on the sly but she made a point of keeping it locked.

"What business do you have in box five?" The old dame asked warily. A strange question.

"_My_ business," I snapped before immediately feeling guilty. I suppose I was still a little sore with her for her insulting remarks pertaining to Joseph's misfortune. "Official business, Madame Giry," I softened my tone.

Suspicion wrinkled the woman's face but she let me in and didn't ask anymore. Once she shut the door, I pulled out a small envelope I had tucked in my shirt. There was no addressee on the front—simply blank. The letter itself—brief and to the point. No fancy imager or honeyed words. Preparations for the next opera were underway and auditions would be held the following day. It was my hope that Christine would turn up by then. There was a short shelf just inside the box's entrance, and I set the envelope on it, propping it up so Erik wouldn't miss it. Now, I just had to wait until midnight—the time I asked him to meet me in the letter.

I shut myself away in the privacy of my room with a light snack to keep me company. Hours crawled by in which I lay sprawled on the bed, picturing just what all I was going to say to Erik. I'd keep my head that was for sure. Whatever that man might do to whip my temper out of control, I would most definitely not loose my cool. Letting those thoughts drift in and out, bobbing like ducks in a pond, I allowed myself to fall asleep where I dreamt of snow in multiple places—Ireland, Russia, the rooftops of Paris…and one memory of England when Jo and I were there on holiday—not planned, of course. There was Jo, looking for trouble, and I as usual, looking for him.

_It was in Devonshire around the Christmas season. Jo had found work on a farm belonging to a man, his wife, and three daughters. During the day, he tended to the animals, built, repaired, harvested, chopped wood, shoed horses…and flirted with the farmer's eldest daughter. At night, he went into town and blew his earnings at ale houses, card games and brothels; flirt with any woman between sixteen and thirty, available or not; start fights with bartenders, and all but paint the town red. I had just arrived in Devonshire and didn't have to look far—he was being escorted out of the first tavern I checked. _

_ His very first words to me—"Why lass, if I weren't seein' double in the first place, I'd say you bear an uncanny resemblance to my baby sister back in Ireland."_

_ "Don't be a *gobshite, Joseph." _

_ "Maggie! Why, it __**is**__ you!" A crooked grin broke out on his face. "What the devil brings you to jolly ole England?"_

_ "A change of scenery."_

_ "A change of scenery?" His voice rose to falsetto—that happened occasionally when he was inebriated. "What scenery? Nothin' but green. Green Ireland, green Scotland, green England. They should've combined all three and declared us the largest garden party in the world! Change of scenery…the only change is that the bloody Brits hate us only a wee bit less than they do Americans."_

_ "Shut up! You're going to wake up half of Devonshire, you drunken lout." _

_ "I should hope so!" He shouted. "That's what they get for pickin' a fight with the croppy boys!" _

_ He raised his syrupy eyes towards the rooftops and I took hold of his arm and guided him home (which took awhile, as he'd forgotten the exact direction of his lodgings), listening to his prattle the whole way._

_ "I'm Irish and I'm proud…and I'll beat anybody else's ass who isn't all wound up about being Irish…Did ya walk here, Maggie?" _

_ "Of course I did." I replied sarcastically. _

_ "Whyyy?"_

_ "For sport, Jo. I decided I could use the exercise."_

_ He crumpled, laughing—a noise something akin to a horse—before straightening back up. "We are but fortune's sport, Magpie. And she does not play fair."_

_ "Stow it, you lanky lookin' lout. You're tanked and not makin' a lick of sense." _

The rest of the dream blurred into a translucent slush before my eyes cracked open to peer at my watch—a quarter to midnight. Not bothering to throw my hair up under the customary cap, I rushed down to the third cellar entrance where I'd told Erik in the letter to meet me.

I didn't know Erik incredibly well, but I knew him well enough to be a firm believer in punctuality. So, why the hell was I still waiting nearly an hour later? Perhaps he didn't get the message. Or maybe he did and that mole rat decided not to show up. Well, I wasn't about to make the trek up to box five nor drag Madame Giry out of bed in the middle of the night. The hike down to the fifth cellar wasn't all that appealing, either. _'That sod has five minutes,' _I promised myself.

Ten and a half minutes later, I was in the fifth cellar, standing at the water's edge. The gondola wasn't there. I juggled between calling out or going back to bed, and finally decided on the former.

"Erik?"

Nothing.

"Erik, I know you read the letter!"

Lie.

"Erik, I'm waving a white flag, don't you dare ignore me!"

Everything was so eerily quiet down there, even the lake was still and almost soundless if it weren't for the drip-drip-drip somewhere off in the darkness.

"You've kept me waiting for over an hour. I'm tired and I want to go to bed!"

The mixture of exhaustion and being snubbed was sending me into a foul mood.

"Have it your way, you stubborn-ass! Either you send me a sign that I'm not just shoutin' for my health or so help me, Erik, I'll swim this damn moat and give you a piece of my mind!"

"You don't have the gall."

His voice startled me. I lost my balance and would've toppled into the lake if a cold bony hand hadn't grabbed hold of my wrist, yanking me back.

"Jesus, what is wrong with you? I nearly fell in!"

"Why so distressed? You were going to swim it anyway."

"I was bluffing. If you're over here, where's the gondola?"

"I do have more than one route to the Opera." Dumb question. "So, you want to offer _assistance_ in my relations with Christine, you say? Funny, I recall you screaming so determinedly, _"she won't ever love you."_"

"That was shameful."

"Or _"crawl back to her, you pitiful dog."_"

"That too—a low blow. And I'm sorry, Erik."

He was silent, contemplating. "Why the sudden change of mind?"

"I'm a sucker for happy endings." I teased. "Someone in this madhouse ought to have one."

"Odd, I don't necessarily see you as a believer of fairytales."

"Hellooo—Irish…it's in the blood."

"That's a terrible excuse." But he seemed amused.

"So…what do you think?"

"It didn't work out so well the first time if you recall."

"This won't be like the first time."

"How can you be so certain?"

I wasn't. "I just know. Things are somewhat different now. We've done a little growing up, you and I, and I believe we can handle this like adults, don't you?"

His head tilted to the side in consideration. He didn't seem particularly convinced. "Alright."

"Alright?"

"Under certain conditions, that is."

I eyed him suspiciously but heard him out.

"One: Stay out of my things unless I give you permission to touch them. If I catch you snooping around—you're out.

Two: You are not to mess with my plans considering Christine. You don't get involved in my business I won't get involved in yours. You are there merely to serve—_guidance—_understood?"

I nodded. We'd see how long that lasted.

"Three: You will stop wearing those absurd clothes and don more appropriate attire while you are under my roof." I made to protest but he cut me off. "You're a young woman not a lumberjack. Are we agreed?"

I sighed loudly and mockingly pouted over his last request. "I don't suppose you're open for negotiation?"

"Under normal circumstances—no. But for you—depends."

"No corsets?" I pleaded.

He rolled his eyes, annoyed at discussing women's undergarments. "No corsets."

"Deal."

I stuck out my hand, which he stared at a moment before shaking it. He suggested I collect whatever belongings I needed from my room ad he would wait for me.

"Stay close and don't wander off," he ordered once I returned.

"Christine will be at auditions tomorrow, won't she?"

"What point would there be in training her if I didn't intend for her to audition?"

"Just asking…might want to keep a close eye, though. I'm sure Monsieur de Chagny will be attending." He stopped short and I nearly collided into his back.

"Condition number four: I don't ever want to hear the Vicomte's name mentioned in my house," he commanded sharply. What a sourpuss. He began walking again and I picked my way over rocks and puddles after him.

"Condition five," I stated firmly, "You stop being so bossy."

. 


	35. Monkey in the Middle

"_There's a fine line between love and infatuation, and don't confuse the one with the other."_

Christine had always been fragile, but some strange alluring light always glowed from within her. In the past week or so I noticed it becoming dimmer and dimmer. When she saw me follow Erik through the door her entire being lit up. Her face showed more color, the bags under her eyes were noticeably reduced. After Erik gave explanations as to my being there, he left us to catch up with one another.

In the privacy of her Louis-Phillipe room she threw her arms around me as if I were a life preserver. I awkwardly returned the gesture before she led me over to sit on the bed with her.

"Maggie, dear Maggie, you have no idea how glad I am that you're here."

"Christine, you look so—how are you doing?"

She sighed. "I'm not sure how long it's been. Even time doesn't venture below the third cellar."

"It's only been a day."

She nodded, staring off into space. "Sometimes, it seems much longer…"

"Christine?"

"He didn't keep me cooped up here the whole time, you know. I was allowed to visit Mamma Valerius."

"What? Christine, everyone's been sick with worry the way you pop in and out like a scared rabbit. Why didn't you tell anyone?"

A dismal cloud passed over her face and seemed to weigh her down. "He made me promise not to."

As she said this she held up her left hand and a plain gold ring greeted me from its residence on her fourth finger. Needless to say, I was struck dumb. I could only stare at her incredulously.

"Before you ask, no, he did not propose. Just before he let me go see Mama Valerius, he slipped it on my finger and said he was giving me back my freedom, so long as I continued to wear it. As long as it stayed on my finger, he promised he'd always be there for me. _"But woe to you if you ever part with it," _he warned, _"for Erik will have his revenge!"_"

Erik could be so hopelessly melodramatic. "What did your Mamma Valerius think?"

"Oh! The whole thing was a disaster!" She cried.

"Was she that upset?"

"No, it was just fine in the beginning. It was when Raoul called that everything went to pieces."

Oh dear…even though I didn't much care for the Vicomte, I couldn't help but pity the poor sucker.

"I had just managed to set Mama Valerius's mind at ease—she'd been very distressed over my long absence, you see—when the housekeeper announced that Raoul was at the door, very adamant about seeing the old woman. He'd come to inquire about my disappearance. Imagine his surprise when he saw me sitting there next to her."

"I'll bet he looked an emotional wreck."

She nodded. "Poor, sweet Raoul. I know I didn't help matters any. I wasn't very cooperative in conversation. He didn't give me much cause to be! He hurled accusations and cross-examined me as though I were a criminal."

"Can you blame him? For being so in love, there's not much trust in your relationship."

Christine's eyes were downcast. "Perhaps you're right…but he didn't need to drag Erik into this!" She buried her face in her hands.

"He knows about Erik?" Again she nodded, still covering her face. "Ohhh…that's not good. That's not good at all."

"I know! We were arguing. His suspicions of my recent actions were agitating Mamma. He blamed my Angel for taking up so much of my time and coerced Mamma into demanding a promise out of me to never leave without word again and remain under their protection. I was furious—he was treating me like a misbehaved child! I told him that I am mistress of my own actions and the only one in the world to demand such a thing from me was my husband, except that I have no husband and mean never to marry." Christine broke off, tears brimming. "If you could've seen his face…I wanted to die right then and there. I didn't mean to say it, I was just trying to protect him by keeping him away. I've made him so miserable.

"He saw the ring on my finger and I daresay it drove him to the brink of madness. He claimed that the man who put it there was not worthy of me. I said, _'Why do you condemn a man whom you have never seen, whom no one knows about and whom you yourself know nothing?' _ That's when he said it. He insisted that I put a name to the voice and when I refused, he confessed to eavesdropping on our conversations in my dressing room and learned the man's name was Erik. I told him in the clearest terms that he must forget about Erik or it could cost him his life. _'Forget the man's voice.'_"

Reading her expression, I could guess that was the last thing the Vicomte intended to do.

"I'm so afraid for him, Maggie, he knows too much! If Erik ever found out, there's no telling what he'll do."

Joseph's body on a stretcher flashed through my mind and I shook it off.

"I told Raoul not to come see me anymore unless I sent for him, and I promised I would, but he didn't seem convinced."

"He doesn't believe that you love him."

"That's exactly what he implied. I asked, _'Are people so unhappy when they love?' 'Yes, when they love and are not sure of being loved.'_"

"Do you love Raoul, Christine?"

She looked at me as if I'd just broken her favorite toy. "How can you ask that? Of course, I do."

"In what way?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I think you know."

She remained silent, eyes flicking over the floor…the wheels were turning. Finally, she looked up at me, an expression of complete blankness in her large blue eyes.

"I don't know. I've known Raoul since childhood. I'm certain I loved him then. He was my confidante—my friend. I always feel safe when I'm with him."

"As opposed to Erik. You don't feel safe with him?"

"I don't feel safe _from_ him. I know Erik would protect me at all costs—even so far as to commit murder for me," she whispered the last part, glancing towards the door as if she suspected him of eavesdropping, "but who will protect me from Erik?"

She started to cry uncontrollably, hugging herself. I came to recognize this as Christine's basic method of defense. Being already shut away with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, she would shrink into herself-for what better place to escape to then the mind? Not sure how she'd react, I hesitantly put a hand on her shoulder. Like a crumbling structure, she leaned towards me and I put my arms all the way around her, holding and rocking her like a small child.

"I can't please them both. No matter what I do, someone loses. It all seems so hopeless."

"I understand things must all look a blur, and everything seems far away, like opera glasses turned the wrong end. Turn them around, Christine. Try turning things around and looking at them a different way. There are two men in your life—both after the same thing. And while you can love both men, you can't be _in_ love with both. It's a very fine line. Yes, someone will lose. You just have to riddle through your feelings, find the courage to decide who."

"Love's breath is stale in my body. I don't know what to feel anymore…I just don't know."

"Love is a fool's game and not always fair. I suppose either we suffer in love or suffer alone."

"Lousy options."

_'You can't expect love to always be there in the beginning…' _"You must give it time to grow. Otherwise, you end up spending a sorry portion of your life, searching when it was waiting for you all along."

I managed to calm Christine a little before leaving her to digest some food for thought, and sought out Erik. I found him in the library, reading _Great Expectations._

"Love her, love her, love her," I sighed, leisurely walking to the bookcase behind him, "If she favors you, love her. If she wounds you, love her. If she tears your heart to pieces—and as it gets older and stronger, it will tear deeper—love her, love her, love her!"

He didn't look up. "I am not amused. Somehow, I never envisioned you as an 'accomplished' individual."

"Just because I'm on the road a lot doesn't mean I don't know how to read."

He gave some sound of acknowledgement before returning to his reading. I browsed the bookshelves, waiting for him to finish. My fingers stopped along the spine of a book I'd not seen in his collection before.

"_The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland_…you?" I had leafed through the first few chapters while exploring one of the great libraries in England and was astonished that Erik of all people should indulge in the strange nonsensical wit of Lewis Carroll.

"You've read it then?"

"Only the beginning. The book didn't belong to me, but I've been dying to finish it."

"By all means, keep the book. I have no use for it."

I couldn't hide a smile. I had been right in assuming Carroll to be out of Erik's league. "You don't like Mr. Carroll?"

"I find him to be insensible, untalented and all together juvenile."

"That seems to be the popular opinion."

"You think otherwise, I take it?"

"He has a clever way of putting things."

"It's complete nonsense; childish drabble."

"I think he's brilliant in ways people of this society will never comprehend because they choose not to think outside of the box."

"No need to get defensive."

Since Erik was facing the fireplace, away from me, I couldn't read his expression (however well that can be done behind a mask), but I thought his tone sounded rather amused.

"So," his book snapped shut and he stood up, "I suppose you two are already conspiring against me?" I moved aside as he sauntered over to place the novel back on the shelf.

"Really, the very idea…don't you trust me?" I asked playfully.

"About as far as I can throw my organ."

"Ouch, checkmate."

"So, what _did_ you talk about at such length?"

"You mean you didn't eavesdrop on the conversation? How unlike you."

"Trying to quit…filthy habit." His eyes twinkled mischievously.

"What makes you think I'm going to tell you?"

"I thought that was the whole reason you were here—to assist; to fix the flaws in communication and behavior between Christine and myself; to make sure nothing gets _lost in translation._

Good point. However, there were some things I didn't feel I ought to share with Erik. A few more fine lines to be drawn.

"Well, I'm sorry," I replied, turning to the door with Lewis Carroll in hand, "but that information is private."

"_'The time has come," the walrus said, "to talk of many things.'_"

I turned back around, raising one eyebrow. "I thought you didn't read it."

"I never said that. I said I didn't care for it."

"For someone so adverse to it there was obviously something worth remembering."

"You're trying to change the subject."

I sighed irritably, tossing 'Alice' next to a nearby chair before sitting in it. "Alright, suppose I do break the bonds of sisterly confidentiality and tell you all that transpired between us—what do I get?"

He pretended to think it over. "You get to remain under my roof—or I could just throw you out, now." He suggested casually.

I chuckled. "Fair enough."

"If you like, I can make us some tea."

I desperately tried hiding a grin (to no avail), envisioning the great and powerful Phantom standing over a tea kettle and dainty porcelain cups.

"Is there some joke I'm unaware of—something amusing in the prospect of tea?"

"Not at all, tea would be nice." I could tell he didn't want to let it go, and so continued to stare as he retreated to the door, waiting for me to spill the beans. "And when you return, I'll tell you the dark and dirty secrets of a poor girl's tortured heart."

"Treasonably whispered," he replied softly before closing the door after him.

I sagged into the cushion of the oversized chair. Oh, what a predicament. I only hoped Erik wouldn't go and say something stupid over the course of the next few days that would allow Christine to think I tattled on her.


	36. We're All Mad, Here

**A/N: A small gap of time to enter in a new chapter. Next chapter coming up within the week…instead of a year…huzzah! Thanks for the reviews! **

I told Erik about the Vicomte's visit (much to his chagrin), as well as Christine's concern for his well-being. I even went as far as sharing her opinion of Erik. However, I felt there were 'some books that should stay formal on the shelves', to put it metaphorically. What Erik didn't know, wouldn't kill him. Erik had listened intently, not interrupting once until I finished, at which time, he appeared very grim.

"After all this time, things still haven't changed," he said finally, slowly rising to go stand before the fire. "I was fool enough to think they would."

Hands braced against the mantle, the fire illuminated his hunched figure. He looked like a gargoyle or some dark fallen creature and I felt sorry, truly sorry, for him. Being a very private individual, there wasn't much to be known about Erik. He gracefully sidestepped the subject of his past and told Christine and I very little, though I felt that I perhaps knew him a trifle better than she, and didn't dare pry any further. But I knew his life had to have been a very unpleasant and lonely one.

"If only that damn boy hadn't come into the picture…" he spat.

"You think things would've turned out any different?"

"Perhaps."

"Well, there's not much you can do about it, now."

He abandoned the fire's warmth and began strolling pensively around the room. "There _is_ something to do about it. I could kill him and my worries would be over."

He said it in such a casual detached tone I wasn't sure if he was serious. "This is hardly the time to be cracking jokes."

"Who's joking?"

"Erik…"

"Yes, you're right," he sighed. "Wouldn't solve a thing, would it?"

An idea occurred to me just then—an idea I knew he wouldn't like.

"I have an idea, and you're in all probability going to hate it, but hear me out. I think you ought to let Christine spend a little time with Raoul."

He immediately stiffened upon hearing the name, his head snapped up. "I don't hate it."

Well, this was going better than—

"I _loathe _it! Did somebody knock you in the skull with a blunt object? What good could possibly come of—,"

"Before you go blowin' your top, listen for a minute; She. Is. _Miserable._ The way I see it, you've got three options: One—Go ahead, get rid of the boy; wipe him off the face of the earth. Although, that will only make her shut up like a telescope and in all probability, hate your guts for the rest of her life. Two—Keep her tucked away in your little pocket, so you can admire her misery on a daily basis. Three—Let them see each other. Grant her some happiness, even if it means your own is at stake."

Erik looked positively sour by the time I had finished. "It seems either way I choose, I cannot win."

I shrugged. "Depends on what you decide to do. Maybe you'll be pleasantly surprised." Erik stood unresponsive in front of the fire again, and I joined his side. "I'm not saying this goes without risk. Love is a risky business. You need to put Christine's happiness before your own. You're killing her, Erik…inside and out. Pretty soon, she won't be the same girl, anymore. You'll look at her one day, and won't even recognize her."

His head bowed at this last thought, sighing in defeat. He knew I was right. "You really believe this will improve our relationship."

"I can make no promises. But has the current arrangement really been working out for you?"

"Fine, you win. We'll try things your way."

Erik actually listened to me for a change, and I knew he didn't take advice from just anybody…well…anybody at _all._ Therefore, it was considerably tricky to hide my smug expression.

"Don't make me regret it." He added just before I slipped out to fetch Christine.

Temporarily barred from the library, I made myself comfortable in Christine's room while awaiting her return, flipping through my newly-acquired book, trying to pinpoint where I left off three years ago.

_"…We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad." "How do you know I'm mad?"said Alice. "You must be," said the Cat,"or you wouldn't be here."_

My thoughts precisely.

"Oh, Maggie…" Christine softly shut the door behind her before leaning back on it, eyes closed. "It's incredible." She murmured disbelievingly.

"All is well, I hope?"

She briskly walked over to take my hands in hers. "I don't know what to think." After briefing over what Erik had told her (Thank God, he left me out of it), she concluded "I don't know why the sudden change, but I have a feeling it has something to do with you being here."

She hugged me tightly then and a thousand thoughts crash-coursed through my mind.

_'This is good.'_

_ 'This is progress.'_

_ 'Erik is proving his love by being willing to trust her even this little bit.'_

_ 'Christine is seeing Erik in a different light.'_

_ 'The course of true love never did run smooth, but ladies and gents-it's runnin'.'_

_ 'This is a good thing. A good thing…'_

So then why was there still that knot-like feeling gnawing away at my innards? I left Christine at her vanity table where she immediately engaged in writing a letter to her Vicomte, and went to see Erik who was still in the library. The door was cracked just enough to spy him sitting in the chair facing me, hunched over, hands woven into his dark hair.

"How are you feeling, Romeo?"

"Like I just willingly placed my heart on a chopping block."

"Awwe, buck up, chum. You'll feel better in the morning."

"I'd rather wallow in despair if you don't mind."

"Some would call it self-pity."

As if coming up for air, he sat back, taking a deep breath and releasing it loudly. He turned his face towards the fire.

"How long did you give her?"

"A week."

"One week? Erik—"

"One week!" He confirmed, sitting bolt upright. "I'm not partial to sharing what is mine in the first place—one week is all I can bear. She'll come here in the evenings after she sings." After a moment's pause he whispered, more to himself, "Dear God, how am I going to get along without her?"

"One miserable day at a time. Then, you'll eventually adjust to the change."

"And I learned at an early age to adapt quickly to change..as you have, it would seem."

"I've learned to _cooperate_ with it—I didn't have much choice. Doesn't mean I like it." He leaned back in his chair and I took the one opposite him.

"Change is necessary. We both know it. Without it, nothing grows, nothing improves. Dreams and ideas would be born and cast aside like abandoned children. In result, I have the feeling the world would be a great deal more chaotic than it already is. That said, however," he added resentfully, "I've never been that fond of change either, especially when it is without warning."

Being a plenipotentiary figure that thrived on being in absolute control, Erik's words made sense to me.

"Well, perhaps this will be a change for the better." I consoled, referring to the situation at hand. Erik's response came in a doubtful grunt. "Hey, you've still got me, old man."

"What a comfort." He muttered sarcastically, but I caught the playful twinkle in his eye. "I suppose it's an improvement to the dismal impending week."

"Gee, don't you make a girl feel special."

He chuckled. "A _nice_ change."

"Ah, that's all improvement really is you know—change with its eyes closed while swallowing a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down."

"I'd hardly liken you to a spoonful of sugar."

"I am more saucy at that, aren't I? Well, that was brazen. Erik's mask twitched as his eyebrows raised, no doubt thinking the same. "Anyway, it's been a long awkward day. If you don't mind, I'll go claim your couch, settle down and watch the eyelid circus."

"Really?" He turned to the clock on the mantle. "Dear me, is it that late already?"

"Or early. Anyway, we _both _need sleep." I emphasized, eyeing him as a mother would a stubborn child who refused to go to bed. "Goodnight, Erik."

"Bonne nuit, Maggie Buquet."

I felt a strong sense of accomplishment for the day and exhaustion hit me before the couch was even in sight. The light was off in Christine's room I noticed as I passed by. At least one of us was having a peaceful night's sleep. Not bothering to reflect anymore on the night's events, the events yet to come or even the event of changing into my nightgown, I crashed into the welcoming if firm cushions and was very soon asleep.


	37. Dark Encounters

**A/N: Thanks for reviewing so quickly! **

**L'Archange—new chapter coming soon, I pinky swear. Also, I've been keeping up with A Black Cat's Path, and may I just say, I'm a big fan **

**WanderingChild96—Thank you for catching that. I knew something about it looked rather funny…that's what I get for not researching my foreign languages.**

**Hot4Gerry, Eccentric Storyteller, and weepingwillow2616—Thanks for your patience and sticking with my story **

**And without further ado…**

_The sky-white as day-old milk, expanding over Galway..._

_The sun fighting through until it's just a thinly veiled sphere._

_I look for Danny. He ought to pop up as he always does, but he hasn't. No one has._

_ The house is quiet—all is quiet—except for the soft breeze rustling the thatch of the roof. Hear that? Somewhere round the back of the house—a light tinkling music…Ma must've hung a new wind chime from the clothesline…. _

_Here, I approach the brae that leads down to the pond. Surely now, I will find Danny as I expect to._

_Standing at the edge of the pond, I peer into still water and see—nothing._

_The ice has melted…not a trace of snow anywhere on the land. I don't feel the impending dread as I usually do..._

_Rather, I felt calm if mildly confused…. _

_Raising my eyes to look out across the pond, I notice a small dark shape bobbing, partially concealed by the tall grass and reeds. _

_Following the bank to the far side…the pond seems much larger than I remember._

_That ominous floating object must be the little rowboat we always use in summer…_

_It's not. Erik's gondola is waiting there. But he's nowhere in sight…_

"_Maggie!" _

_I turn to the distant voice calling from behind. I lose my balance and fall in. _

_I'm thrashing now…thrashing about under the water, unable to surface. _

_ The muffled voice cries again, "Maggie!" _

_ I'm trying to follow, but I keep getting caught up in these weeds. They won't let go!_

_ I feel no pressure on my lungs. I'm sure if I dared, I could breathe in the water and not drown…but I don't want to find out._

_ Please, see me…_

"**Maggie!**"

The voice shouted right in my ear and I started, rolling until I made impact with the ground. "Ow! Jaysus, _what_?" I didn't realize I was tangled in the blanket until Christine pulled it off me.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine," I muttered groggily. "What's going on?"

"You made some rather frightening sounds and flailed about like a wild animal." Erik explained from the doorway, adjusting the cuffs on his sleeves.

"I should think you'd be used to that by now."

"You didn't even change before going to bed?" the ever proper Christine enquired.

"So? I was exhausted, I didn't care."

"You'd best change right away before we go up top."

"No need. I'm ready if you are."

Erik cleared his throat. "I refer to Condition Three…"

"That only applies while I'm 'under your roof.' In ten seconds, I'm not going to be under your roof, am I?"

"This is not open for debate."

"Seriously, Erik? Pick and choose your battles."

"You're still in my house, you'll abide by my rules in my house."

"I am _not_ going to prink and primp now, what if someone recognizes me? There are still some who didn't witness my little unveiling, you know. Those who weren't at the Irish party in the third class."

"She's right, Erik. You can't be stubborn about this one." Christine concurred.

I win.

The day started out normal enough—cross dress, monkey around the catwalks, check and repair sets with the boys, keep Christine and Raoul happy, keep Erik happy….the only people who were rarely ever happy—Carlotta and her ever-devoted crowd flew in and out of the theatre at intervals, often arguing with the managers and shaking a small bit of parchment. I stood in the wings, watching a particularly entertaining episode that disrupted a dance rehearsal when I felt a hand tug on my suspenders. Instinctively, I jumped back before noticing a pair of glowing eyes set in a hollow pocket of the wall. I let the hand pull me into the shadows and the panel closed behind me.

"Well," I said, slightly irked, "nothing like beginning the day with a good strong cup of chaos."

"I like to get an early start." Twin pinpricks of light filtered into the dark cavity that allowed one a close-up view of upstage and part of the orchestra pit.

I sighed. "Is there no end to the invasion of privacy?"

"As you can see and hear there is nothing 'private' about the situation at all."

Carlotta was screaming god-knows-what in her native tongue with one hovering manager attempting to calm her, the other looking one step away from throttling her, all the while clenching a rather crinkled piece of paper that appeared similar to Carlotta's. Aside from it all being annoyingly disruptive and time-consuming, it was really quite comical to watch.

"Blackmail looks like such fun. I really must try it sometime."

"I'd prefer you to think of it as mastery in the art of persuasion."

"I'm sure you would. Have you ever tried communicating without the threats of impending doom?"

He shot me an irritated glance. "Don't make me laugh."

"Just saying…_could_ make a difference."

"The only difference is that acts of open defiance would continue, minus the melodrama, and you and your incompetent lot would be starved for entertainment."

After watching the scene unfold in silence for a time, I began to notice something. At first I thought I must be turning soft or some nonsense, but as I kept watching, I kept wondering…finally, I shared my thoughts out loud.

"She's really quite pretty, you know—Carlotta. I bet at one time, her voice wasn't so mediocre. I wonder what happened."

"How do you mean?" Erik sounded genuinely curious.

"Well, after lying in her destructive wake long enough, you tend to pick up on certain qualities about her, microscopic as they are, one might deem admirable. She couldn't have _always _been…bad. It's sad to think sometimes about what it is that changes a person; what it takes to push them over the edge."

Erik stared ahead thoughtfully and I wished I could've read his mind right then.

"So," I clapped my hands together, snapping Erik out of his reverie, "which diva will have the honor tonight?"

"Why I tolerate such pointless questions from you, I _don't _know."

"Because it amuses you."

"Hardly." Erik seemed to be mulling over something once again and after nothing more was exchanged, I took the initiative of ending our little meeting.

"Well, I'd better get back…before they miss me."

Nothing. I turned to go when he finally spoke up.

"I wonder if perhaps you might be interested in seeing the performance, tonight."

"Um, I always see it."

"Watching it from an audience member's vantage point—less distractions watching from a private box."

"A private box?"

"Yes, box five. Quite a different experience. If you wish you may join me in my box, this evening. Of course, I understand perfectly if you have other plans."

He said it all so stiffly and almost condescending in a way as though I'd just invited myself along and he only agreed out of politeness.

"Uh, sure. That would be nice, but I can't. They'll need me in-,"

"Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it." He assured.

"Of course you will. Well then, I look forward to it."

"Until this evening, then." He nodded his dismissal and opened the panel to let me out. I stepped out from behind the curtain just as Rémy came bounding up behind me.

"_There _you are. Jacques requires your assistance on a set."

"Alright, I'm coming."

I mentioned before that Carlotta had a _few _what you might call 'admirable' qualities—one being nerves of steel. But she was also stubborn and unyielding; all of which, did not make a tasteful combination. Convinced the Opera Ghost's notes were nothing more than a ploy of Christine's to steal the limelight and end Carlotta's reign as Prima Donna, she did not heed Erik's warnings. Rather, she tore the notes to pieces, declared nothing in heaven, earth or hell would stop her from performing that evening, and did all but butcher Christine Daae's good name. I didn't see or hear from Erik the rest of the day, but I didn't need to, to know this put him in a foul mood.

The more Carlotta and the managers ignored Erik's instructions, the more the notes came, each more threatening than the last, which, in turn, made Carlotta a force to be reckoned with. At one point, I came across a distraught Christine in the wings.

"Horrible…_wretched_ woman!" she muttered.

"Don't tell me she's gettin' to you."

"Usually, she doesn't."

"Why take it when you can break it?"

She looked at me quizzically. "Break what?"

"This ridiculous dominance you believe she has over you. It's something we used to say in the Buquet house. Don't take her bullshit, give her a taste of her own poison."

"Maggie, no. No matter how rotten she's been to me, revenge won't make anything better."

" 'Revenge' is such a harsh word, really. You're more or less just evening out the score."

"No. I won't do that."

"Would you put the saint on the back burner for once and grow a spine? Just a harmless little prank-,"

"No, Maggie!" Christine immediately checked herself, eyes darting to make sure no one overheard. "Pranks harm everybody, no matter how small. And don't you dare try anything, either. I've enough to worry about with Erik without having to worry about you too."

"Calm down, I promise."

"Well," came a familiar accent, "if it isn't the two conspiring little orphans." Carlotta slowly sauntered toward us. "Devising your next plan of attack?"

"To hell with you." I replied, in a bored tone. The Diva's eyes instantly darkened as she marched forward, causing us to retreat several steps backward onto the stage.

"How dare you talk to me that way, you worthless, scheming little witch! I know _both_ of you are in on this!"

I knew we had drawn just about everyone's attention, but I could've cared less.

"In on _what?_ This is all just a pot of bollocks to satisfy your need for attention."

"Ha! It's you and your ghastly brother who couldn't get enough of that."

"Shut up, hag, or I'll turn you into a gnarly toad!"

. "Buquet! Madame! _Please_-," the director attempted to intervene, but the Diva just swatted him away like a bug.

"Burn in hell, heathen!" she spat at me.

"If that's where I end up, I'm dragging you down with me."

I should've been grateful to the director, really. Carlotta looked ready to grind my bones for her bread and very nearly would have had he not plucked up the courage to restrain her and lead her away as Christine feebly attempted to do the same with me. The Diva hollered some foreign drivel at me all the way out the door. Unfortunately, I was temporarily suspended from my duties as consequence for my actions. "Although the Diva's behavior was appalling, yours was far from tolerable,"—were the director's exact words as he shook a reprimanding finger in my face. "Understandable, but not tolerable."

And so, it seemed I had the night off.


	38. UNDER CONSTRUCTION

**A/N: Hello, dear faithful readers. Due to the fact that I have been absent from the world of fanfic for a long time, I hate to be the bearer of sad news that I am deleting this story. But no worries, it's undergoing revision and will be back hopefully better than before. **

**Thanks for you constructive criticism and comments. **


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